Hellhound On My Trail
by SkitzySyko
Summary: Shannon 'Mac' MacLeod is an enforcer for The Saints of Boston who is forced to run for her life and ends up in Charming. More detailed summary inside. Rated because this is SOA, not Disney.
1. Saint Jude

**Overview:** Shannon 'Mac' MacLeod lives in Boston and is a member of the 1 % MC, The Saints of Boston. After the suspicious murder of her club's president, Mac is framed and leaked as the primary suspect in the murder. She runs from Boston to Charming to be with an old friend and hopefully get the hell hounds off her trail. OC-centric but all the boys appear. Rated for: violence, gore, language, drug-use and everything that The Sons of Anarchy has on a regular basis.

**A/N:** This is my first SOA FF that I'm publishing. The first few chapters take place in Boston, obviously, but don't worry all the boys we love will appear (although with so many damn characters that's a hard task to complete, lol). Please, please, please R&R. Constructive criticism welcomed and even asked for – because if I'm doing something wrong I can't fix it unless someone tells me :) .

Also, I am a huge fan of The Boondock Saints and there will be referrences made throughout, so any that resembles a scene or phrase from them is intentional. Let's get this show started!

Chapter 1: Saint Jude

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><p>She holds the gun in her lap with loose fingers, tracing the waffle pattern of the grip lazily. Her long, almost impossibly light blonde hair hangs around her bowed head like a curtain, obscuring her from the afternoon sunlight that streams in through the half-closed curtains. Her broad, muscular shoulders are slumped low, physically weighed down by her own crushing grief.<p>

An empty bottle of gin lay forgotten on the pine kitchen table, next to the few photographs the 31-year-old woman cherishes. In all the pictures, two beaming blonde sisters look into the camera with remarkable resemblance. Each smiling sister has distinctive features of their own, for instance a vast different in height and eye colour but their sorority was unmistakable. They have the same blonde hair that is almost-white, the same creamy alabaster skin and the same sharp Swedish cheek bones. In the older pictures that have yellowed and bent from time and loving, the eyes of the eldest sister, the tallest one and the one who now sits in the empty apartment, appear worn and wrinkled on her youthful face. It was the all too telling sign of a past the woman struggles to forget and remember all at the same time.

A deep, heavy sigh falls from the woman's peach lips. She had made herself a promise long ago in the far away coastal town of Scotland that she used to call home, but now that the moment of truth is finally upon her she struggles to gather the internal strength needed to keep her own promise.

Her fingers, not at all delicate and dainty but rather with scarred knuckles and broken nails, roam over the piece of metal that has long since warmed up to body temperature. Her hand wraps around the grip of her gun and her index finger curves around the trigger.

She reminds herself of the promise she made when she was fifteen as she brings the muzzle to her temple. It was a deal she made with herself during her darkest of days; the second Sarah no longer needed her, she would end her life.

But as the metal digs into her temple she can't pull the trigger.

She puts the gun down on the table and buries her face in her hands. A small, dry sob rakes her curved body. The woman is so far past sorrow that the sobs are redundant but yet still her body shakes violently.

For all intents and purposes she was more Sara's mother than she was her older sister. Their mother was killed during a car crash 1988, on her way to pick up a birthday cake for Sarah. Shannon was nine and Sarah was turning five. On that fateful summer night though their mother was the only one to actually leave this corporeal world, their father died too. The loss of his wife completely shattered the Scottish fisherman. He crawled into a bottle of Whiskey and never returned.

Shannon filled her mother's shoes to the best of her nine-year-old ability. She cooked and cleaned and made sure Sarah got her bath. She helped Sarah with her homework and tucked their father into bed.

But there was so much more than that that Shannon did.

Shannon can remember her father in her early youth as a strong man who always smelled like the sea and took her to shoot cans with his Winchester rifle if she ate all her vegetables and got good marks. He was kind and gentle, and _always _loving.

Her father post-Whiskey was not that man. Her father post-Whiskey was composed of nothing but pure malicious intent. At first he just yelled a lot, throwing cruel insults at his daughter like they were comments on the weather. He resented Sarah most of all, vocalizing several times that he believes she's the reason that his wife Mary was taken from him.

Shannon would hold Sarah as she cried and coo gentle words into her ear. It sufficed for the time being.

But then… Well, then everything changed. He became increasingly violent as the months progressed. With most of his rage actually directed at Sarah, Shannon did the best she could to protect her baby sister just like her mother always told her.

Shannon would hide Sarah, locking her in away the bathroom or hiding her in the closet and then go forth and face her father alone. She accepted his wrath and dealt with the bruises and the vicious insults all in the name of keeping Sarah safe. Shannon sacrificed so much because she couldn't bear to see her sister hurt and scared. And in the end what good did it do?

None. Sarah was still murdered at 27 all because Shannon failed to keep her safe.

There's a knock on the front door of her small Boston apartment, the one above a pub in the heart of Southie that she has called home for eight years.

Like a robot she uses the table to hoist herself up with her fully tattooed arms and drags her feet to the door.

She winces when she opens the door and the apartment floods with the bright spring-time sun that she has been keeping at bay for so many days.

"Jesus, Mac. You look like shit." The visitor breathes. He is tall at 6'1 and only a hair taller than the blonde woman. He has shaggy brown hair that falls about face like wispy smoke. It flies into his honey brown eyes with the gentle breeze and he pushes it out of the way with a tanned hand so that he can see again. He wears a cut over a green shirt, the dingy ivory patches sticking out against the black leather of the vest. _Boston_ is embroidered on the patch just above the left breast pocket, and on the opposite side his rank of _Horseman _is cryptically displayed.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" The woman asks. Her voice is velveteen dark with an obvious Scottish Highland brogue.

"Can I come in?" Sherlock asks his old friend. She begrudgingly steps aside and allows the older man to enter.

"It's like a fucking crypt in here." He comments as he looks about the small apartment. He spots the numerous empty liquor bottles scattered haphazardly throughout and the gun on the kitchen table among the pictures. The deep pit of worry he internally holds for her widens.

"Feel free to leave anytime." Mac grumbles. She gets a fresh bottle of gin from the cabinet and pours herself a drink.

Sherlock swallows his comment about her health and his worry because he knows she'll just wave him off and call him a pussy for caring so much. He takes a seat at the kitchen table. He picks up one of the photographs and looks at it for a moment. He then takes a look Mac, internally sighing at her appearance. Having been close with MacLeod for ten years, Sherlock is well rehearsed at understanding her body language. She's taking her sister's death _very_ badly.

She leans against the beige kitchen counter with the full glass of clear liquid cuddled firmly by her pale hands with her emerald eyes listlessly staring at the checkered linoleum floor. Mac has an OCD-esque trait where she _always_ looks someone directly in the eyes. It greatly adds to her overwhelming intimidation complex because her eyes always seem to stare right through a person and into their very soul. With one look she can tear down any wall and pick a person apart, brick by secret brick.

But with her eyes aimed on the floor she looks like someone else. She looks like someone who is fallible.

"Why are you here, Leon?" Mac again asks with utter exacerbation.

Sherlock sighs. _Why couldn't she be easy, just once?_

"I have some good news." Sherlock breathes. Mac perks up, her elegantly groomed eyebrows shooting half-way up her forehead.

"I found Roy. He's staying at some roach motel off the turnpike." He says hopefully.

Mac has been waiting to hear those words for two excruciatingly long weeks and as the words grace her ears the adrenaline shoots through her body like a lightning bolt. She places the glass of gin down on the counter with a quiet 'clink' as glass connects with tile. In the sudden stillness of the apartment it sounds like a gunshot signaling the start of a race.

"When are we going after him?" Mac asks as calmly as she can manage.

"Tonight."

She slides into the kitchen chair across from Sherlock and lights up a cigarette. Taking a long pensive drag, her eyes fall upon her own worn cut that hangs over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She is a member of the same MC as Sherlock, The Saints. The club patch of large praying hands that are entwined with a Celtic rosary stands out from the back of the vest with formidable symbolism. Finally. Finally her prayers have been answered.

"Thank you for finding him." She says with an exhale of thick smoke. Leon didn't get the nickname Sherlock on a whim. The MIT graduate has the supernatural power to find anything or anyone with ease. Granted, he has had a hard time tracking down Roy, but all that matter to Mac is that he _did._

"We've all been trying to find him." Sherlock says, referring to The Saints, "And we've all been worried. You haven't come around the pub or the station since…" His voice trails off because there's no need to actually finish the sentence. They both know the words that complete the fragment and it would be nothing but twisting the knife in the wound at this point to speak them.

Mac gets up from the table and for a moment Sherlock thinks she's going to deck him.

And secretly, he would let her if that's what she needed because that's how much he loves her and wants to help her.

However, Mac just pulls her cut off the chair and slips it on. In the same ivory background and Shamrock green lettering as Sherlock's dingy patches, _Boston_ is also over her left breast pocket. But over her right, her different rank lurks. _Hellhound_, the patch rightfully warns.

It's inexplicable, the comfort that the vest brings to her. With the feminine cut of the leather hugging her curves it brings to her more sense of security than Kevlar.

"Drive me to the armory. I want to pick out a new gun." Mac states firmly, her vivid eyes finally meeting Sherlock's gaze. There's a deep rooted determination and controlled rage within her words that Sherlock is relieved to hear because that mean's she okay. As her shoulders overcome the crushing grief that previously weighed them down, they tense up and complete Mac's signature intimidating appearance is complete. There are no signs of the woman who sat contemplating suicide mere minutes ago. There's only Mac and her outstanding likeness to the Furies of ancient Greek mythos.

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><p>I don't like to beg - but I am. Please review!<p>

Saint Jude - The Patron Saint of Desperate Situations


	2. Saint Joseph

Chapter 2: Saint Joseph

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><p>Mac has never been a woman of few words but as she rides in the truck down the motel road she can find no words to speak over the rapid firing of her synapses. Fueled solely on adrenaline and cocaine, her heart races within her chest and threatens to burst free. She places a calming hand over her heart, feeling the firm <em>thud-thump thud-thump thud-thump<em> of her beating heart against her palm.

Her wavy blonde hair is pulled up into a pony tail that reveals the soft angles of her demurely square jaw, set firm with determination. Tonight revenge will finally be wrought for the murder of Sarah and nothing in the world could change that because Mac won't let it. She pulls the mask down over her face as they near the rows of motel rooms and lets the cocaine and adrenaline fog her mind in the most pleasureable of ways.

"Room 4." Sherlock mentions to the driver, Eli. Eli is a tall, muscular man of 26 with skin the colour of coffee and eyes as foreboding as the gates of hell. He too is a member of The Saints, but for tonight their cuts lay abandoned for the favor of stealth and anonymity. There's no need to be wearing a billboard while committing mass felonies.

The motel is fairly empty, save for three cars spaced well apart from one another in the poorly illuminated parking lot.

The SUV backs up so the back can be opened quickly for prisoner transport. Five people pile out of the SUV, all dressed head-to-toe in disguising black. Mac stands in the front of the group as they march to the door. She takes out the small scope that reverses the concavity of the peep-hole glass and peers inside the room.

It's dark inside but Mac can make out the faint shadows of a singular body in the bed.

She gives a silent nod to her brothers and time itself seems to become suspended in a viscous liquid as Mac easily kicks down the cheap door and all five burst into the motel room. Startled from the commotion, Roy snaps up in the bed. When he sees the mass of people he quickly tries to reach for his pistol on the bedside table, but the five guns suddenly all aimed at his head makes him reconsider. He puts his hands up in the air.

"My wallet's on the dresser. Take whatever you want." He stammers.

"We don't want your fucking money." Mac snaps. She lifts up her black knitted mask and reveals her face to the highly sought-after man. Roy's eyes become as wide as silver dollars that fill to the brim with terror.

"_Oh shit._" He cusses loudly, instantly recognizing the looming blonde. He tries to scream for help but Mac is upon him with force before he can suck the air into his lungs. Her fist connects with his face with such vehemence that he falls off the bed. She follows him down and kneels on the man's narrow chest, pinning him down to the ground. She presses down on his windpipe with her tattooed forearm to stop him from being able to make any noise.

"You tried to be smart and hide from me, but there's one thing you forgot," A twisted, snarling smile tugs up the corners of her mouth as she speaks, "You can't hide from your worst nightmare, mother fucker."

Roy lets out a wheezy whimper as his body cowers beneath her. Seeing his fear only makes her smile widen.

Mac leans in closer to the man, placing her lips mere centimeters from his ear, "You're going to fucking die tonight." She laughs. The hollow, malevolent laugh echoes throughout the closet-dark room in the most haunting of ways.

She lifts her Glock up over her head and swings it down. The butt of the gun connects with Roy's temple and his head rolls to the side; limp.

She secures his hands behind his back with a zip-tie and picks the man up, slinging his heavy body over her shoulder with a certain ease that only further alludes to the physical strength that her muscles, hidden by her feminine curve, did not. She roughly throws him into the back of the SUV, snickering slightly as his head ricochets off the interior.

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><p>The basement is cold and damp, smelling vaguely of mildew and dust. The singular florescent light up above head flickers every few seconds as if sending out a silent SOS for the unconscious man strung up to the ceiling by his bound wrists. His head, covered with messy black hair, is lulled off to the side in blissful unawareness of what is about to happen.<p>

This man is for Mac and Mac alone to torture and kill, but her fellow kidnappers lurk around in the basement of the old mortuary that is commonly used for instances such as this. They are here for support and to see Mac obtain the vindication she so desperately called for on the night the police knocked on her apartment door. Red, the current VP, a middle-aged Irishman with a pot mark covered face sits atop the basement steps with Ace, the current President, watching the whole scene from above like the ancient royals who watched Gladiators fight to the death. Ace is a young man for his sixty-four years of age. Grey is just starting to appear at his temples, but his face wears the heavy signs of battle that came with the life. He is by far the most ruthless of the group, aside from Mac who is known for her endless brutality, but he is also the most caring. The club is his family and each of its members are his children that he never lets too far from fathers watchful eye.

Mac takes off her leather gloves then places them a top the tray that holds various devices she planned to use to inflict the maximum amount of pain tonight. She wants to feel the sensation of his warm blood running over his hands, not the desensitizing lining of the gloves. She inhales one last, long drag from her cigarette and crushes it beneath the thick sole of her boot.

Her dilated emerald eyes glance over her shoulder to Ace who gives her the subtlest of nods.

"Wake up!" Mac demands loudly as she splashes the man in the face with cold water.

He startles awake, swinging slightly as his body shakes. As the realization creeps upon him he lets out a scream. She picks her white KA-BAR up off tray and makes a grand show of twirling it about in full view of the hanging man.

"You scream again, I'll cut off your tongue."

"I didn't mean to kill her Mac, please – " The man's rant is cut off by a silencing blow to the gut.

"You don't get to talk about her." Mac sneers, "I'll tell you what, though… How about you beg for your life? Beg like she begged for hers just before you strangled her like the _piece of shit_ you are. Maybe then I'll just let you live, minus a few limbs." Mac says. She traces the tip of the sharp blade along the man's chest, leaving a thin line of red beads behind.

"You're fucking crazy! Please, Mac - I swear I didn't mean to kill her!" He is silenced by the blade penetrating deep into his stomach as Mac growls. It's a low feral sound like that of a large cat in the African Savanna.

"I said, _you don't get to talk about her._" There's a flash behind her eyes like flames doused with kerosene and she loses it. She becomes completely engulfed by the fire of rage and with roaring eyes she mercilessly lays into the wailing black-haired man, pulling out the knife and diving right back into his flesh over and over again. The white KA-BAR pierces him with no resistance. It's like the sharp blade were slicing through butter.

Mac has a tendency to completely lose it. Like a twig snapping, she has her breaking point where she turns into a Fury and almost always leaves a body count in her wake. The Saints even have a name for it.

A Mac Attack.

Sherlock grimaces and turns away as somewhere in the murderous blur Mac nicks an artery and blood spurts into the air. He can't stand to see how much Mac _enjoys_ the bloodletting, no matter how deserved said bloodletting is.

Mac's hands get slippery with his blood and her hand slips on the hilt, and she slices her palm deep against her own knife but through the haze of adrenaline she barley feels the sting. She abandons the blade, leaving it imbedded in the already dead man's chest and garnishes a set of brass knuckles from the tray. She strikes the dead man in the face with ungodly force and there's a sickening, squishy crunch as his skull breaks under the impact. She keeps hitting and doesn't stop until his skull caves in and brain matter begins to decorate her fist.

She takes a step back, chest heaving high and low with rapid breaths. Covered in blood she looks like an ancient blood-thirsty Viking on the battlefield as she stares down her recent overkill.

She spits on his body, but the clear fluid is lost among the waterfall of red that flows from his copious amount of wounds.

People have questioned Mac's psychopathic nature, on the elation she finds in taking someone's life and a complete disregard for human life. _The biggest adrenaline rush _is what she called murder and it was the adrenaline that gave her the elation and Mac does not consider herself to have a _complete_ disregard for human life. A _mild_ disregard, sure. A _conditional_ disregard, definitely. But to say she has no respect for life? It's all pure bullshit to Mac and those who truly know her. She's saved as many lives as she taken, if not more. It was a careful weighing of her soul deciding whether or not she is saint or sinner. Mac likes it that way, though, because in the end sinners always make the best saints.

She waits with heaving breath for the soothing relief of vengeance to flood her nervous system.

It never comes.

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><p>Mac sits on the picnic bench outside of The Saints clubhouse, smoking a cigarette and staring up at the black sky with the strangled stars that struggled to shine. Her mind wanders to that starry night, in a land faraway that she once called home, when she made a somber promise to keep Sarah safe forever. An overwhelming feeling that she has failed her baby sister tugs at her heart strings and threatens to make the tears Mac has been fighting so hard to keep at bay finally spill over their eyelid levees.<p>

"_Do you promise to keep me safe forever?" Sarah's voice cracks in the chilly silence of the night. Their father's incessant lewd shouting and heavy banging on the door had receded over an hour ago but Sara was still too afraid to unlock the only door and let the outside world in. In the locked bathroom, cradled in her sister's arms, she was safe. Out there _he _lurks. All of six-years-old, Sarah already knows too much of fear. She knows there's no boogeyman lurking in her closet or monsters living under her bed. At six years old Sara knows what it _truly_ means to be terrified, but as she sat in the bathroom wrapped tight in her older sister's loving arms she also knows what it truly means to be loved. Her bright blue eyes stare up through the tiny bathroom window to where the stars are bright and the world still had infinite possibilities. Sarah believes that somewhere out there was a place where your father isn't the thing you fear at night and you mothers don't die._

"_I promise. I'll never let anyone hurt you, Sarah." Shannon whispers. She soothes a young, alabaster hand over Sarah's platinum blonde hair and places a loving kiss on the forehead of her baby sister. _

"_Does it hurt?" Sara asks, poking lightly at the darkening bruise that graced the fleshy cheek bone of Mac. Mac winces away from the sting of the gentle touch._

"_Aye. But it'll get better, just like last time. I'm a strong one, I can take everything that old man's got." Mac comfortingly smiles to the best of her ability, trying to cover up the lie she not only tells Sarah but also tells herself. Maybe if she says it enough it will become the truth. Maybe someday she will be able to handle it all._

"Mac?" Sherlock's ever worrisome voice pulls Mac from her memories.

"What?" Mac grumbles as she flicks the burnt cigarette off into the darkness.

Sherlock sits next to her on the green bench and says nothing at first. He's trying to find the words that he had practiced but are now lost to him. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say to her, rehearsed every single word, but actually looking at her he couldn't remember them worth a damn.

"I'm worried about you." He says hastily.

"When aren't you worried?" Mac snorts.

"This is serious. You locked yourself in your apartment for two weeks – "

"But I'm out now. " Mac bluntly states in a tone that should've signaled the end of the conversation, but Sherlock does not heed the warning.

"_Goddamnit_, can you not be a fucking badass for twelve seconds?" He finds himself shouting, even though he's not actually angry.

Mac defiantly stares him the eyes like she always does. She is intimidating by epitome, but Sherlock won't let her intimidate him. Not this time, not when there's so much at stake.

"How long have you known me?"

"Ten years." Confused, Sherlock answers.

"And in that entire ten years have I ever needed to be comforted like a god damn child?" She berates.

"No, but this is different. Your sister died, I _know _you're hurting." Sherlock defends.

"You don't know the fucking meaning of the word _hurt_." She spits. Mac stands from the bench and moves to escape but Sherlock's hand flies out and grabs her arm. Decorative skulls with flowers in their eyes dance under Sherlock's fingers as she wrenches her arm free from his grip.

"Don't you ever talk about her again." She threatens and stalks off. Her threat hangs in the air like a bad smell long after she gets on her bike and speeds away into the night, but Sherlock is too lost within his own thoughts to give a rat's ass about her threat. He's so worried about her because she's the sister he's never had. They're easily the closet out of the entire club and have been ever since they met. They share some innate connection, which is why Sherlock can tell with such ease that his friend is slipping. And what scares him the most is he doesn't know what to do. Mac has always been as strong as a marble statue, but there are cracks starting to appear in her façade and Sherlock is the only one who can see it. His friend is slowly breaking apart and he has no idea how to help her because what do you do when marble shatters? Just sweep away the pieces and throw them away?

No. Sherlock won't let his friend break. He gets on his own bike, the old Triumpth that was once his fathers, and chases after her - already knowing where she's going.

Sure enough, her custom Softail stands alone in the parking lot of the regal Gothic-styled Old South church. He finds her inside, sitting in the pew closet to the door. She looks over her shoulder at the sound of the opening door and sees Sherlock, but pays him no mind and goes back to reciting prayers on her rosary.

Sherlock slides into the dark wood pew and sits next to her and listens to the elegant Gaelic prayer that she whispers. It used to surprise Sherlock to see Mac in the grande church because of her lack of fitting in with the church attendees, but over the years he has come to appreciate how religious she is because it makes her more human and less ferocious Savanna cat.

When she finishes her beads she turns to Sherlock who has patiently been waiting. There's a new found calmness to her, a staple of completing her prayers.

"I can't talk about it, Sherlock. It's still too soon." She sighs.

Sherlock nods gently in understanding and places a loving arm around her broad shoulders. He releases a breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

"When you're ready, I'll be here." He promises.

"Thanks, Jiminy." She refers to Leon with the secret nickname only she calls him. It's a reference to the movie Pinocchio, a film Mac did not see until five years ago, but fell in love with. Especially because of their dynamic relationship and Sherlock's incessant need to be Mac's voice of reason, Mac dubbed Sherlock her Jiminy Cricket, the representation of the conscious that for a long while Sherlock thought she lacked just like the wooden boy.

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><p>Saint Joseph - The Patron Saint against Doubt and Hesitation as well as death. Very fitting, no? : )<p> 


	3. Saint Richard

A/N: So, I had to re-work the story in order to get to Charming before I reached 70,000 words. The same basic plot line is still in-tact but the circumstances that make her flee have been tweaked and I just really hope it works out well because this chapter gets real heavy on action.

ANYWAY! This is the last chapter that will be taking place in Boston. Next chapter she gets to Charming and everyone can get their SOA off season fix (Seriously, I hate this time of year).

Enjoy, and as always please let me know what you think.

Ch 3: ST. Richard

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><p>The Saints is an MC with charters solely in New England. The mother charter, Boston, has 32 fully patched members, thirty of whom are male and two of whom are female. Only twelve of those members make up 'The High Council', or the shot-callers of the group. The MC firmly fits within the parameters of the outlaw 1% with their primary revenue business being growing marijuana and black-market guns while legal revenue comes in from the Irish pub across from the station that they own. The Saints are prominent within neighborhood of Southie, where their station is located, and are often called upon by Southie's residents to pick up where the law leaves off. As fixated within the community as the MC is they are greatly respected throughout. No one in the neighborhood doubts their blackened under-bellies, but they chose to hold a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy with The Saints. So long as <em>their<em> homes aren't getting shot up in the crossfire, they don't want to know what goes on behind the clubhouses' iron gates. It is better that the whole neighborhood doesn't know the magnitude of skeletons that lay within their closets, both figurative and literal.

The next day Mac arrives at the clubhouse for the weekly meeting before the others that will soon befall upon the clubhouse. Ace had called her and asked her to come in early so that he could talk to her, about what he didn't say. Mac dismounts her bike and enters the two-story brick building. It used to be a firehouse but was closed down in 1978 due to budget cuts and The Saints promptly purchased the building. Many of the original features are still in the building, most notably the brass pole that runs through the ceiling into the second floor and has found a second life as a stripper hub.

Mac crosses through the old engine area that has been converted to the main function room and into the back office that is used for meetings. It is in the room with deep green walls that she finds Ace, with his feet up on the large birch table, his slowly aging face hidden behind a copy of _The Boston Globe_.

"What's up?" Mac asks Ace.

"Take a seat." Ace's gruff voice gestures to the high-backed leather seats that skirt the long table. Mac takes her designated seat, the one to the right of Ace's at the front. His seat differs from the eleven others, with dark burgundy leather wrapping around the cushioning versus the common black. Behind his chair that sits between two large windows that peer onto the busy streets flanked by two flags hang that hang on brass poles. One is the American flag and one is the Irish flag – a tribute to the shared heritage of every Saint. On the wall between the two flags and behind Ace is the club symbol – Two praying hands that hold a Celtic rosary. In the blown up proportion of the club patch the cross that dangles of the end of the rosary is visibly composed of a rifle crossed by two hand guns, a detail that is lost on the backs of The Saints. Beneath the hands is the motto 'Give 'Em Hell!'.

The Saints have a healthy appreciation for the irony of it all.

Ace peers over the top of the newspaper with dark grey eyes and takes a quick look at Mac then returns his attention to the printed word.

"You gonna be alright?" He asks motioning at the gauze bandaging around Mac's hand. Mac looks down at her own hand and flexes it, almost reveling in the pain that comes from aggravating the injury.

"I'm good."

"The Sox," The Boston Red Sox, "Are going all the way this year, I don't care what these stupid fucks say." He grunts with a mild look of disgust as he folds up the paper and pushes it off to the side.

Mac lights up a cigarette and waits for Ace to get to why he called her in.

"I need a favor." He says.

"Ace," Mac starts as if she's telling someone for the fifteenth time how to turn on a computer, "You know I'll do anything for The Saints."

Ace nods. It is vehemently known the lengths Mac is willing to go for the club and in hindsight it was stupid of him to ask.

"This is more of a personal favour." He starts, looking at Mac for any sign of hesitation but finds none so he continues, "I'm sick and tired of those Trinity mother fuckers trying to get their grubby little hands in our piece of the pie." He says. The Gold Trinity is a low-level MC run by an Irish man named Mickey Murphy that has taken root in the neighboring city of Lowell and is desperately trying to break through in the gun-running circuit of Boston that The Saints dominate. So far they have proved to be nothing more than a major annoyance because in the grand scheme of things they're _very_ little fish is a _very _big pond.

"I want that greedy shit-head Murphy erased." Ace finishes.

Mac relaxes into the chair and looks away out the window to the busy street. Outside on the city street people bustle about with their daily lives, completely unaware of the things that happen within their vicinity. They're like little worker ants trapped in a steel and concrete ant farm, running around in circles, blissfully ignorant to the fact that their life means nothing.

"Killing Murphy doesn't make them ago away." Mac says after a moment. Normally decision such as this are voted upon, but it is not unusual for Ace to sick Mac on whoever he didn't like. In fact, it was quite literally part of her job description.

Ace leans forward with his elbows on the table, "The Eagles are meeting with the Trinities tonight for a gun buy and if you get up there with an M24 and take out Murphy when he gets there…" His voice trails off with insinuation.

"It turns into a gun fight - They'll take each other out!" Mac finishes. She laughs once curtly in a demeanor of bemusement, "That's a damn brilliant idea, Ace. Damn brilliant."

The Eagles are street gang based in Lawrence who sell heroin and guns to a wide variety of people within Massachusetts. The Saints don't per say have a problem with The Eagles, but in the same regard they aren't exactly chummy.

"So, can I count on you to be my hellhound and fetch me some souls?" Ace asks with a smile and a cocked eyebrow.

"Of course." Mac says without a moment's hesitation.

Mac has been a member of The Saints for almost eight years, fully patched in when she was 24 and affiliated practically ever since she came state side with Sarah. It took a long time of proving herself different from dainty damsels in distress and showing her loyalty to the members before they even let her Prospect, but she quickly became a well-respected and prominent member of The Saints. Her rank, _Hellhound, _is somewhat tough to equate to any other rank. Some would call her position an 'enforcer', others would call it a 'hit-man', but none of those names summed up everything a _Hellhound_ is. She holds paramount authority within the club, her ranking directly below that of the VP. She is mostly called upon for duties that require the strongest of stomachs and nerves of steel. A _Hellhound_ is someone whose gotten so bloody for the club they couldn't find themselves underneath. A _Hellhound_ is, to put it simply, not to be fucked with.

Mac rises from the table and turns to leave, but upon remembering something, turns back on her heel to face Ace again.

"Know anywhere I could find an M24 on short notice?" She asks.

"I'll call my brother." He grunts. Ace's brother, Jack, is a lieutenant for the Flanagan Family.

The Flanagan Family is who the Sopranos would be if they were transplanted to Boston, only a hell of a lot more scary. The Flanagan's don't fuck around with _anyone_. No matter who you are, if you get in there way, _boom_ you're dead. No questions ask.

Secretly the entire syndicate scares the ever loving shit out of Mac because she has personally seen the destruction the Flanagan's use to sign their names with.

Mac can still remember the smell of the gasoline in the air on that autumn day two years ago. The Flanagan's blew up the car of a family who was trying to flee from Boston because the patriarch had stolen $5,000 from the family.

The son of a bitch the Flanagan's were trying to get wasn't even in the car. It was just a mother and her two year old daughter.

"Is there something else?" Ace asks Mac.

"No." Mac breathes. She turns on her heel and walks out in search of first a gin and then something a little stronger.

* * *

><p>The meeting between The Gold Trinity and The Eagles is being held an hour's drive from Boston in the densely covered woods of Western Massachusetts. The rocky dirt road that narrowly winds through the towering coniferous forest gives way to a small clearing that is utilized as a sometimes camping ground for hikers in the summertime.<p>

After tonight, though, Mac doubts anyone will ever want to sleep there again.

From her vantage point on a nearby hill 600 yards away Mac hums along to her favorite Dropkick Murphy's song as she installs the night scope on the M24 rifle.

Down below in the clearing The Eagles have already arrived. Nine representatives stand around the circular break of trees, adamantly talking amongst themselves. Mac _almost_ feels pity for the poor fools. They have no idea the kind of hell that's about to be unleashed. Just like the little ants walking around in Boston, trapped within their cityscape ant farm, The Eagles were lethally unaware of what was lurking in the night: Mac playing God with a magnifying glass.

Mac licks her finger and sticks it up in the air to gather a feel for the wind. There's the slightest of cross breezes, but that's okay. She'll just have to aim the slightest to the East.

Rounding the corner to the clearing, the animalistic grumble of engines can be heard. Mac lowers the magnification on the night scope and uses it to watch the arrival of Murphy and his gang of seven angry leprechauns.

"And enter douchebags stage left." Mac says to herself. Peering through the scope she finds Murphy is, indeed, at the head of the pack. She watches as the eight-rider strong Trinities pull into the clearing and come to a halt in front of the 'imposing' Eagles.

Mac gets down on her stomach and rests the M24 on a rock for steady aim.

Humming all the way she peers through the scope and wraps her hands around the large rifle she has lovingly named _Big Daddy_.

Murphy dismounts his bike and places his helmet on the seat. He says something to the hulking man next to him.

Mac's finger curls around the trigger.

She breathes in.

Exhale. Squeeze.

The bullet bursts from the chamber at 2,540 feet per second. There's almost no time between when Mac squeezes the trigger and Murphy's skull bursts open, spewing blood, brain and bone into the atmosphere. There's a brief moment of shock among the blood spattered faces of the murdered man's comrades before the gun fire erupts like fire crackers on the 4th of July.

With her whole body tingling from the adrenaline rush she pushes herself up off the ground and, always being one for dramatic antics, takes a small bow before the trees.

"Thank you, thank you! You're far too kind."

Down in the clearing the black powder applause roars.

Chuckling lightly at her own absurdity, Mac stuffs Big Daddy back into her duffle bag and takes off running towards the 1994 Accord she had stealthily driven to the rendezvous. She drives cleanly away from the scene, taking off in the opposite direction for favor of a different route that wouldn't be swarming with wannabe badasses in a few minutes. As soon as she's off the lumpy dirt road and onto the deserted main road she calls Ace.

"How'd it go?" He asks gruffly.

"I believe your act of genius deserves a noble prize." She says, being intentionally cryptic out of habit.

"I'm glad to hear that." Ace states and then the line goes quiet, indicating that he has hung up on her.

Mac rolls her eyes and tosses the cell phone onto the passenger's seat.

"Would it kill you mother fuckers to just _once_ say goodbye?" She asks herself, in reference to the growing fad that has gripped The Saints by the balls – rudeness.

The headlights of the beige Accord cut through the dense blackness of the moonless night. At midnight, there aren't exactly a lot of people driving around West Bum-Fuck, Massachusetts and she's solemnly alone on the narrow winding road with nothing but an adrenaline crash and the punk music filtering through the half-blown car speakers.

As Mac takes a corner on the road she is blinded by the well-functioning high beams of a car stopped in the middle of the road. She has to slam on her brakes to prevent a head on collision and comes screeching to a halt. Burnt rubber floats up from the back of the car as she lays on the Accord's horn. The shrill sound echoes off the thick hardwoods that line either side of the road.

But the car doesn't turn off its high-beams and it most certainly doesn't move. She rolls down the window and sticks her head out, trying to get a better look but the god damn headlights make her see nothing but spots every time she blinks.

"GET THE FUCK OUTTA THE WAY YOU STUPID ASS HAT!" She shouts on the window.

Still, nothing happens.

Muttering lewd obscenities under her breath Mac gets her handgun from the glove box and upon finding that it is indeed fully loaded, swings the door open and clambers out.

"OI!" She calls out as she nears the car, fuming from the fact that some asshole had impeded her get away.

Through the springtime lullaby of the night Mac hears the all too familiar sound of a firing pin being cocked from behind her.

"_Fuck me." _She hisses under her breath.

"Drop the gun." A familiar gruff male voice says.

Mac's stomach drops to her boots and sloshes around as she realizes what's happening.

"I said drop the fucking gun!" The voice again demands. Mac releases her hold on her gun and it clatters onto the pavement. Regretably it does not accidentally discharge like she hoped for.

"Now turn around nice and slow."

Mac complies. She turns around as slowly as humanly possible to face Ace, and more importantly, Ace's .9 mm. She looks beyond the muzzle pointed in her face and into his cold grey eyes.

"What are you doing, Ace?" She asks the old man though she already knows the answer. She can feel it in her bones – what Ace is here to do. After all, if there's one thing having an abusive father is good for, its body language skills.

"Me? I'm here to put you in the ground." Ace spits.

"This a club decision?" She inquires as her eyes flash about – desperately trying to think three steps ahead.

Ace raises the gun and pistol whips Mac in the cheek. Mac, who is a well-seasoned scrapper, already had her feet braced for impact and barley moves because of the attack.

"No. Those fucking fairies want to make you the next VP," He sneers, "But ain't no fucking way I'm letting that happen."

"So, what? You're going to execute me like a pussy?" Mac growls. Mac is surprised by Ace's current actions, but she is not in the least surprised at facing death. After all, she knew the second she donned the praying hands that it would only be a matter of time before the patch wrought her demise.

"You're one stupid fucking _cunt_ to be calling _me_ a pussy!_"_ Ace shouts. He makes a grand gesture with his gun, like he _is_ the hottest shit alive.

Mac says nothing. She just keeps staring over the barrel and into Ace's homicidal grey eyes.

"Get on your fucking knees." He demands, making the subtlest of waving motions with the barrel of his Beretta.

"I'm not getting on my knees for you." Mac spits.

"Fine," Ace huffs, he steps up closer and is barley an arm's length away with the gun aimed directly between Mac's green eyes, "That's your fucking problem. You don't know when to shut up!" He rants.

But just because Mac's not afraid to die doesn't mean she's not going to fight like hell to survive.

In one swift, fluid motion Mac wraps her hands around Ace's extended arm and twists the gun out of his hands as she elbows him in the nose.

The gun crashes onto the pavement. Mac keeps her grip on his arm and bends it around his back, then kicks the back of his knee. He falls to the ground and she pulls more on his shoulder as she pins him down.

He bucks beneath her in a pathetic attempt to get the woman off of him.

"You fucking bitch!" He yells as he thrashes about. But Mac only applies more force to his shoulder to keep him still and with a loud, wet _pop_ his shoulder comes out of its socket.

He screams. She pulls her back-up piece, a .22 from her ankle holster and holds it up to his temple. Her finger curves around the trigger.

"You're as good as dead if you shoot me! You know how fucking well connected I am!" Ace threatens, but it falls upon deaf ears. With the adrenaline from her fight-or-flight instincts rushing around in her head he might as well of been talking about kittens and rainbows.

She breathes in.

Exhale. Squeeze.

The acrid smell of burnt flesh mixes with gunpowder wafts up. The stench snaps her out of the judgment altering cloud of her survival instincts and brings her crashing back to reality.

"Oh _fuck. FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK!"_ She yells.

She swallows the wad of nerves that has gathered in her throat and leans back on her haunches. _This is bad. This is really, really, really fucking bad._

Her mind reels ahead of itself but her reflexes kick in and she slings the heavy, limp body over her shoulder and stuffs it into her trunk. She picks the guns up off the pavement and stuffs them into her waistband and runs over to the car that was still in the middle of the road. The keys are in the ignition and she drives it just slightly off to the side – just enough so her Honda can pass by. Mac gets out and rips off the lower portion of her shirt, quickly stuffing it into the gas tank while keeping a cautious eye on the road for anymore unwelcomed visitors.

Fingers fumbling about she struggles to get her zippo to light, but as soon as it does she takes off running towards her car and leaves as fast as she can. She puts the small car in drive and zooms off into the night faster than a bat out of hell.

_What the hell just happened back there?_ She thinks to herself. It was no secret that Mac was going to be up for vote as VP when Ace stepped down and Red got promoted, but there was _never_ even the tiniest of hints from Ace that he wasn't okay with that. If he had just _said_ something Mac wouldn't of…

The car explodes in her rear-view mirror, and the loud noise startles her through the deadly quiet of the night.

* * *

><p>The only thing that Mac knows for sure is there's no way she can go back to The Saints. It doesn't matter who she is. <em>She <em>killed the President and there will be no escaping the capital punishment _her_ club will riot for. It is her word, that of a merciless hit-man, against the corpse of the _President._ There is no explaining that, regardless of the truth.

She drives past a few cops with flashing lights that cause her heart to skip a beat. Her eyes follow the cruisers through the mirror, and she relaxes slightly when they keep on going towards the explosion and the massacre.

She keeps on driving through the dark night before coming to a small off-road that led into the woods. As she takes the corner Ace's body in the back of her trunk slams against the interior walls with a soft _thud_. She puts the car in park and lights up a cigarette because she simply can't focus on driving anymore. Her shaking hands break two cigarettes before she can get the third one out and light it. Mac takes a deep inhale.

"What am I going to do?" She moans to herself.

Her first instinct of course is to run like hell. It's what Mac has done before and could do again – starting somewhere new, that is. She fled from Scotland when she was 19 and she could flee again but maybe this time somewhere warm.

But as she mistakenly starts to doubt her own instincts a sliver of hope works its way into her mind. Maybe she could go back. She was close enough with everyone that if she just _explained_ herself she could get them to understand.

Of course, she would have to live past the point of announcing his death in order to explain herself.

But then, even if she did explain herself what about Ace's family?

"SHIT!" Mac screams loudly as she remembers Ace's family, banging her fist ferociously against the dash out of anger.

The man she murdered was no ordinary man. His blood is blue, hailing from the Royalty of Southie.

The Flanagan Family.

The laundry line of obscenities that fly from Mac's lips would make even the toughest of sailors blush, but through the cursing Mac reaches one overwhelming conclusion. She _has_ to run.

* * *

><p>Saint Richard - The Patron Saint of Large Families<p> 


	4. Saint Christopher

Chapter 4: ST. Christopher

* * *

><p><em>In 1998 Mac takes the money she had managed to save and leaves Stornoway with Sarah. They cross the channel and stay with a cousin of theirs in Belfast. It is there, that among all the disturbances that grip the people that Mac truly finds herself. The Troubles spawned for more than thirty years but by the time Mac found her niche in Belfast with her cousin, the worst of the violence had passed. It was still tense sometimes, but in a way that electrified the air and made Mac giddy – excited to see what or who would go next. <em>

_Her cousin is deep with the True IRA and though she never thought about it, in hindsight she realizes that that it was inevitable that she got entangled with the IRA. She was a nineteen year old girl with so much anger in her soul that she practically made the Kool-Aid herself. _

_Her older cousin did try to keep her from the violence of it all and many a nights gave her a wry look as she sat at his kitchen table weighing out plastic explosives into convenient pocket sizes. Eventually he gave up and recognized the family resemblance. It was there, within the IRA, that Mac meets him._

* * *

><p>The flames of the pyre are starting to die down as the sun breaches the Connecticut horizon and turns the sky an iridescent pink hue. Long ago the body in the fire had blistered, popped and crackled under the flames into a charred, glowing mess of blackened bones. But still Mac stands, watching over the roast with neutral eyes. She feels no remorse for the man who tried to execute her, just a vague nausea left floating behind in her stomach from the powerful odor of kerosene and burnt flesh.<p>

Mac exhales a thick cloud of skunky smoke in rings and promptly takes another hit off the primo product.

"Why did you want to kill me?" She asks the pile of burning bones. Mac doesn't expect an answer because she knows dead man can't talk, thank god for that, but she still wants to know. Yes, Ace had said it was because he didn't want her to be VP but there has to be another reason behind it. Ace was too mad for it to have not been personal.

She rubs her tired eyes and makes a mental note to get some coffee as soon as she gets back on the road.

She knows where she will go already. She is going to the only place she knows of that will be safe.

Mac steals a glance at her white wrist watch with glossy red eyes and tries to remember how far behind the northeast California time is.

It is only 3 a.m. where he is, but Mac decides to try calling anyway. She dials the ever-changing phone number that she always commits to memory, the one belonging to her old friend from Belfast.

He answers on the third ring, voice alert albeit slightly slurred in a way that made his English more recognizable. One thing about a Celtic accent is that when the person is drunk they're actually a little bit easier to understand.

"Mac, to what do I owe the pleasure?" _Oh, yeah, he's definitely wasted._ She could practically see him now, cheeks blushing red as he accidentally lights four cigarettes by the wrong end and then curses the packing company for putting them in the wrong way – just as he did the last time she saw him. The memory, through the haze of recent events, brings a smile to Mac's face but it fades away quickly as she remembers why she set Ace on fire.

"I'm in some real deep shit." Mac starts and pauses, allowing time for him to shoo away whoever he was talking too on the other end of the conversation, "I need a place to lay low for a while."

"What happened?" He asks, concerned.

"It's a long story, Chibs." Mac says with a sigh.

"Is it bad?"

Mac looks at remains of Ace that are burnt to extra crispy perfection, "I'd have to say on a scale of one to I'm fucked, I'm fucked times infinity."

There's a long pause from Chibs before he speaks, "When will you be in California?"

"A few days at least, I'm in Connecticut right now."

"_Connecticut?_"

"I told you it was a long story." Mac grumbles, squishing the joint beneath her boot in a way that made her look like a pouting child. There's an audibly heavy sigh from Chibs over the ear piece and Mac resists the urge to roll her eyes so as not to further complete the pre-pubescent likeness.

"Just get your arse over here." He says hastily, as if he wanted to spit it out before he changed his mind.

"Thank you." Mac says. It's genuine and heartfelt, the type of gratitude that is laden with respect.

"Aye." Chibs says and snaps the phone shut. The line goes quiet. It seems rudeness has not only gripped her brothers by the balls, but also the friend she met all those years ago in Belfast.

"_Seriously? Would it _kill_ them to say bye?_" Mac mumbles under her breath with mild irritation as she storms out of the woods and back to the Accord.

* * *

><p>The California sun was high up in the pale blue sky and intense as it shone down upon Charming. It is the first time the celestial fireball has burst free from thick rain clouds in five days and little puffs of steam rise up off the black asphalt as it gets hot. It's Wednesday afternoon and though Chibs is not scheduled to work in the garage today he leans against the peg board and watches with mild amusement as Tig tries to figure out how to open the gas flap on the Corolla. It was one of those new 2011 models that you had to press on the flap to get it to open, and Chibs knew this but he is not going to tell the fuming red Tig that because Tig is turning to be quite the entertainer as he practically tears the inside apart, looking for the gas flap release switch that isn't there.<p>

"Try looking at the manual." Chibs suggests with a humorous snort.

"Hey – Fuck you, I don't need no god damn manual." Tig says. Chibs has to bite the insides of his cheeks to stop from grinning like a fool.

Tig is always funny when he gets flustered. Well, up until the point where he decides it will just be easier to shoot the damn thing.

Which is currently about three seconds in the future for Tig.

He says a long list of variances of the word 'fuck' such as; "Fuck this motherfucking stupid fuck ass fucking piece of fuck", which promptly threw Chibs over the edge and into a hysterical bout of laughter.

"What? What's so funny?" Tig shouts with rabid eyes.

"You've…got….to….push…on….the…thing…" Chibs manages to say between breaths.

"You're a fucking douchebag, man." Tig glares at the laughing Scotsman with narrowed eye and his arms crossed over his chest.

Chibs rightfully doesn't give a damn. It was funny and that's all that counts. Except when he tells that to Tig it earns him a punch to the jaw that briefly makes Chibs see stars.

It wasn't a punch to start a fight it was a punch thrown to end the laughter and Chibs accepts that and moves on, lighting up two cigarettes and handing one to the black haired man as a peace gesture.

Chibs and Tig are good friends because they understood each other and don't make a big deal about getting a deserved hit to the kisser.

They chat about the party last night, about how Jax kicked major ass during the friendly spar between him and a nomad brother.

It's mindless chatter to fill in the void of the day while Chibs waits for Mac to show up at the shop. He had told her to meet him here because that poor woman is absolutely horrible with directions and it was hard enough for her to understand 'Get off the highway, take a left. Eight miles down the road on your right.', let alone the directions to his apartment across town.

Just as Tig finishes his recounting of the killer right cross Jax directed at the short nomad, Chibs can see the Accord that puffs burnt oil pulling into the parking lot. He can't believe that car's still running. It has to have at least 300,000 miles by now.

It comes to a stop by the side of the garage and the engine sputters down. The driver's side door opens with force and Mac quickly exits the tiny car and proceeds to stretch out her long, tattooed limbs. Given the relatively close distance between Mac and Chibs, he is surprised to see how much she has changed since he last saw her four years ago. She wears a simple white tank top that shows off all the tattoos on her upper body. The intricate, colourful sleeves he remembers well but a new necklace tattoo of curvy scripture lettering graces her chest with her clubs motto _Give 'Em Hell_. As she bends down to touch her toes the full back piece that was just an outline the last time he saw her is complete and gives him a shiver as he imagines just how much it hurt for the tattoo needle to dig into her spine. The tattoo that goes from the her shoulders all the way down her back and is visible along the small gap between her shirt and jeans, is the recognizable gates of hell in grey scale.

But more than the new tattoos she has a completely different way about her that Chibs can sense even from a distance. She looks like a fox caught in a bear trap only seconds before it gnaws its own leg off. She looks panicked; on-edge.

"Is that the chick?" Tig asks with eyes suddenly as wide with excitement as they were on the day when he was twelve and figured out how to masturbate.

"Aye, that's my Mac. She's off limits." Chibs says completly oblivious to the fact that he referred to her as 'his'.

"Why, are you hitting that?" Tig asks, not doing a good job at hiding his attraction to the tall blonde.

"No, but I happen to know for a fact she eats guys like you for breakfast." Chibs smirks. Tig's face falls in the most drastic of ways as his pride is hurt by Chibs insinuation that Mac was _too_ much woman for him.

As Mac snaps up from her bent position that Tig made a mental sketch of, she sees Chibs in the garage and casts a smile in his direction and bounds over – obviously having a large surplus of energy due to her 3,000 mile ride to California that she completed in four days.

As she enters the darkened shade of the garage she pushes her sunglasses up on the top of her forehead and Chibs can see faint crows feat starting to crinkle out from the corners of her eyes and he wonders how old she is, because he's never actually known. He knows it's impolite to ask a woman's age and in Mac's case, he was a little afraid to because she just might hit him for asking.

"Whose your friend, Chibs?" Mac asks, gesturing to the black haired man who again had a dopey smile twisting up his face.

"I'm Tig, but you can call me Alex if you want." Tig winks. Chibs only rolls his eyes and says a silent prayer for his friend that he doesn't end up as her next meal.

"I'm Mac." Mac gives him a small, friendly smile that Chibs wishes she hadn't because it'll only encourage the poor bastard. Then Mac turns and gives Chibs a large, tight hug that makes him smile the smallest of smiles. She smells like tobacco and lavender and it creates the most wonderful sensation inside his nose.

"How are you doing, darlin'?" He asks the woman that he's known for well over a decade.

"Alright, all things considered." Mac breaths as they pull apart.

Chibs looks around, trying to see the short blonde he had grown to love named Sarah, but he doesn't see her in the car. He finds this unusual because of how inseparable Mac and Sarah are. Usually where one goes the other is sure to follow.

"Where's Sarah?" Chibs asks, curiosity getting the better of him. Mac's face visibly falls with great discomfort. She looks away from a moment and takes in a deep breath that makes her chest rise drastically against her tank top – much to the pleasure of Tig and the dismay of Chibs because he realizes that something bad had happened.

"Is there a place around here to get a stiff one?" She asks. Chibs preemptively elbows Tig in the ribs to stop the comment that he knows is coming.

"What the hell, man!" Tig asks, doubled over as he half-assedly pushes Chibs.

"I did that for your own good – she would've broken your nose if you finished that little thought in your head." Chibs says to the blue eyed man before turning to Mac, "Aye. In the clubhouse." He ushers the curvy blonde who looks at Tig with a dangerously cocked eyebrow out of the garage and into the clubhouse.

* * *

><p>Mac tells him everything. She tells him every last painful detail about how Sarah was found strangled on the north shore. She tells him about hunting down the man who murdered her. She tells him about her President trying to assassinate her. She tells him all of this and as each syllable falls from her lips in the native Scot-Gaelic that reminds him of home, Chibs' chest falls a little more with remorse and sympathy.<p>

At the end of it he doesn't know what to say, so he tells her as much and takes a quiet pull from the whiskey bottle he had gotten when it was decided that just _one_ stiff drink would not suffice. She nods in understanding, because when it all boils down, she really doesn't know what to say either.

After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, Chibs finally speaks up, "Do you know what you're going to do?" He asks. Just now in the dimmed lighting of the living area he sees the shine on her cheek; she's covering up a deep bruise with make-up.

Mac shrugs. Her finger tips absentmindedly trace circles around the lip of her glass as her eyes stare off into the distance in thought.

"I don't know. Maybe wait a while for some of the heat to die down then try to reason with them." She says, but even Chibs can tell that she doesn't believe it herself. He knows of the Flanagan family and knows full well what they will do to Mac if given the opportunity. Chibs knows that will try and hunt her down, and her own club will be looking for her as well. He knows how crushingly alone and un-trusting she feels in this very moment because he was there, not too long ago, when Jimmy O turned on him.

But at least she's safe here in Charming. Not only has Chibs secretly sworn to protect her but he knows, if need be, the Sons will be there too.

"You're safe here Mac," He reaches across the table and uncharacteristically places a calming hand over hers – the one that has the image of the Virgin Mary tattooed on the back, "Whatever you decide to do, I'll help as much as I can." He says, and the words are so much more than a promise. They're indebted.

She saved his life not once, but twice and for that he would make sure no one caused any more damage to the woman that he recently discovered was not, in fact, made of stone but rather scars. He at least owes her that much.

_It always seems to be raining lately. The sun has not been seen for ten days, and though Chibs is accustomed to long breaks without sun shine, it is really starting to get to him. Small dips in the cobble stone streets have become impassable lakes and the ground has become so water logged it is akin to quick sand. _

_It is miserable and dreary and he is downright sick of it. _

_He mutters curses as he fumbles to get his key out of his pocket and_ _balance the grocery bag on his hip._

_As an orange tumbles out of the top of the bag and off the small landing, only to make a smoothie on the landing down below. Mac hastily takes the bag from Chibs' clumsy hands and balances it on her own hip._

_He gets the key to the door knob singled out and sticks in the lock then slowly twists._

_He _almost_misses the small 'click' of metal contacts hitting each other. But before he can even react, Mac is grabbing his shoulders and pulling him over the railing of the staircase. In mid-air the pressure wave from the massive explosion knocks them down onto the landing nine feet below with considerable force and speed. Through the haze of confusion and the ringing in his ears Chibs feels a bone snap as they connect with the tiled flooring. _

_He looks up with just enough time to duck out of the way of a large chunk of burning door that falls from his apartment where he had been standing only seconds ago. He blinks slowly, the realization sinking in gradually as he looks around. _

_He feels his own body to find where the bone snap had come from but finds himself intact. He then remembers Mac. He cranes his neck and looks behind him to where Mac is unconscious. A small pool of blood has formed on the small checkered black and white tiles, creating mini impassible crimson tide streams within the grout. The blood stems from a large cut on the top of Mac's forehead. The flesh around the wound is jagged and torn, and he looks up. A tangled glob of blood and hair sticks to what's left of the railing above – she must've hit her head on the way down. _

_Though disorientation from the blast Chibs remembers his training and quickly takes off his shirt and applies pressure to the profusely bleeding head injury. His eyes roam over the rest of her body, wondering where the snap had come from. _

_He sees it then, the unnatural bend in her arm and the jagged piece of white sticking out of her forearm. He swallows to hold back the bile and doesn't wonder if that means he's got a concussion or that he's suddenly squeamish. _

_He calls for help but no one comes out of their apartments so he picks the surprisingly solid blonde up, bridal style, and carries her out. _

It's only then that he becomes aware of the ringing in his ears that never went away. The doctors said the explosion had ruptured his ear drum and that it would never go away, but merely fade into the background. And they were right. Eventually the ringing became the soundtrack to his daily life and he barley even noticed anymore.

Chibs wonders if Mac has the same ringing in her ears, the same incessant high-pitched buzzing that used to keep him up at night.

He unconsciously looks to her forehead, where the deep scar from the blow to the head peeks out from under her side-swept bangs. The jagged scar hardens his resolve to thermite specifications. He will _never_ let anyone hurt her. He at least owes her that much.

* * *

><p>Later in the night, as Mac plays pool with Opie and as Chibs goes to get a refill, Jax approaches the Scotsmen at the bar.<p>

He leans against the lacquered wood lip and gestures to the woman Chibs had officially dubbed as 'off-limits' silently to each of his brothers, "What's the deal with her, Chibs?" The blond man asks.

Chibs, too, steals a glance of the woman who is apparently kicking Opie's ass due to the look on the round face of the stern man, and has to shrug because he doesn't know what to say. It's not really his place to tell Jax what her deal is.

"C'mon, all the guys are curious." Jax urges. Chibs says nothing.

"Tig told us you aren't banging her, but I don't buy it. You got that look." Jax snorts, obviously trying to edge Chibs on. Jax' curiosity had finally gotten the better of him and he simply _had_ to ask the older man just of the mysterious' womans origins.

"What look?" Chibs grumbles defensively.

With an understanding smile Jax responds, "The lost puppy dog look." He slaps the counter of the bar in a gesture of farewell and goes back to couch where he hops back right into the slightly heated conversation Tig and Kozik where having about something or another that Chibs doesn't care to figure out.

Chibs knows he holds a flame for the strong Scottish woman that always seems to surprise him. He has ever since that fateful rainy day in Belfast. But he never acts on his feelings for Mac because she has never even slightly hinted at anything more than a solid friendship going on between them though he always wishes he just would already. Chibs doesn't want to take a leap only to fall _and_ loose a best friend in the act.

He shakes his head lightly to physically disperse the thoughts buzzing around in his mind like flies and takes a large gulp of the strong whiskey that pleasurably burns the entire way down.

* * *

><p>"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let me get this straight. <em>You<em> beat _Chibs_ in the ring?" Clay says slowly.

Mac nods with grand animation. Clay looks disbelievingly back and for between the two Scots. Chibs nods too, confirming Mac's story of how she took Chibs down during one of their notorious friendly scraps. He had no shame about losing to her because despite the fact that she was a woman she was easily one of the strongest fighters he's ever been pitted against, even in hindsight. She gave him a god damn good run for his money that day and in the end her impeccable upper cut took him down. Credit where credit's due and all that bullshit.

"He's won more than me I think though... The current score is what - ?" She stops and lets Chibs speak because she lost count long ago.

"Nine to eight." Chibs affirms.

"Nine to eight," She repeats and then realizes what she just said, "_Nine to eight_ my arse! I can remember at least ten times I won." Mac huffs. Her arms cross over her chest as she glares at her fellow Scotsman.

Knowing what other two times Mac is talking about Chibs shakes his head adamantly, "Those two times don't count." He defends.

"Bullshit! They most certainly do!" Now half-shouting, Mac insists.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"YES!"

"NO!"

The other patrons of the bar, both with patches and without, look upon the shouting duo with wary eyes as the argument gets more and more heated.

When they start shouting incoherent words in Gaelic at each other Clay speaks up and brings their attention back to the matter at hand.

"What are you guys bickering about?" Clay demands with 50/50 look of annoyance and amusement.

"If you don't tell them, I will. And I will not leave out any details about tears." Mac threatens with a wag of her finger.

Chibs sighs, "There were two times that she won with a… _hit below the belt._"

A chorus of low 'oooh's' fill the bar – the effect of the shared phantom pain every man in the bar felt at that exact moment.

"Yeah, that definitely doesn't count." Opie agrees, with the others nodding through their expressively cringed faces. Mac scoffs with a roll of her eyes.

"Tell them what you did before I kicked you in the nut sack. Both. Times." Mac demands, her green eyes glaring at the older Scotsmen much in the way a scalding mother urges a young child to apologize. He slightly shies away under her look and begrudgingly complies.

"I hit you below the belt first. Both. Times." He mocks her slightly at the end because he's not exactly proud of the fact that for one last, desperate measure he punched her in the groin. Twice.

"Dude, that's low." Jax says to Chibs.

"Literally." Tig snickers.

"I don't know if that still makes it justified, you girls don't have any…_sensitive_ parts." Opie states.

If looks could kill, he would be writing on the floor like The Fly screaming 'Help meeee. Help meee' from the murderous look that Mac is shooting the bearded man. He shrugs the look off, not at all concerned, and takes a drink from his the long-neck beer bottle that seems to have been glued to his palm as of late.

"So, _anyway_ the score is eleven to nine. I'm winning." Mac states proudly.

"Now hold on just a damned minute," Chibs starts, "Just where is that eleven coming from? I thought you just said it was ten!"

"I did, but I'm counting this argument as kicking your ass." She gives Chibs a wink and walks off to get a refill, her hips sashaying in that way that women just instinctually _know_ how to do.

More than a few pairs of eyes watch her go.

"I like her. You could definitely do worse, Chibs." Kozik gives the older gentlemen a supportive pat on the back and goes back to lining up his pool shot.

"Naw, Chibs says he ain't fuckin' her." Tig smirks.

"Really?" Kozik says, his eyebrows perked up with intrigue.

"She's mine." Tig says, warningly with narrowed eyes.

Everyone is silent, staring over Tig's shoulder to where Mac suddenly stands with a cocked eyebrow and a gin glass held precariously like a weapon.

Chibs snickers, seeing the obvious look of disgust on Mac's face.

"What are you laughing at Scar-Face?" Tig questions, hands on his hips.

Still snickering Chibs points over Tig's shoulders to the lurking Fury.

"She right behind me isn't she?" Six heads nod in confirmation, and Tig lets out a long exhale before turning around.

"Alright, since you caught me I'm just going to come right out and say it I want to fuck you. Hard." Tig smirks. He imagines that the bluntness will throw her off guard and leave her at the very least stammering for her words if not thinking about him in the depths of her dreams tonight.

Mac's face becomes dangerously void of emotion. Chibs takes a step back from the marked man for self-preservation. _Better safe than sorry._

She blinks slowly and puts the gin down on the table, then stands akimbo as she looks Tig directly in his blue eyes – they're almost the same height with her in her buckled boots.

"If you can beat me in a good old fashioned scrap, with my man Chibs as ref, I'll give you a shot." She matches his bluntness pound for pound and everyone is visibly taken aback by her frank deal.

"_What?"_ Three disbelieving voices, Tig, Chibs and Jax all ask in unison.

"If you can beat me in a fight, I'll give you a shot to woo me." Mac repeats, only this time at almost slow-motion speed.

"I don't know." Tig stammers.

"What, you afraid to hit a girl?" Mac pushes. She takes a step closer to the leather clad man. Their noses almost touch.

Chibs looks away from the strange mating ritual, feeling his cheeks become hot.

"You? Hell yeah, I'm kinda of attached to my junk." Tig answers, completely honest. And he was right to be so, because if there was _ever _a woman to be afraid of, it is Mac. His eyes drift down from her face and fall upon the two perfect mounds of sugar that press against the stitching of the white shirt every time she breaths.

"Either strap on a set or stop staring at my tits." She picks her gin up and exits the clubhouse, leaving a shocked group of patches in her wake.

"Her chick balls are bigger than yours!" Jax says teasingly through the bouts of laughter that infect his soul after he catches a glimpse of how utterly devastated the SAMCRO Sergeant at Arms looked.

Tig shrugs, indicating an un-true sudden lack of interest, "She's just embarrassed because she wants my shit so bad."

"You keep telling yourself that." Clay chuckles, giving his right hand man a light pat on the back.

* * *

><p>Reviews are my crack. Feed my addiction?<p>

:)


	5. Saint Matthias the Apostle

A/N: A couple of things I would like to say. 1) The last scene in the previous chapter was comedic relief. I apologize if it comes across as OOC, I was just trying to be funny. 2) I also apologize for any typos that work their way into this story, I read it over twice before I post but some still slip :'(

Other than that I wish to say enjoy but it's kinda a sad chapter so...

Chapter 5: ST. Matthias the Apostle

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><p>Mac releases a long grumbling groan that is partially silenced by the floor. She had <em>insisted<em> that she could walk on her own so Chibs put the woman down and allowed her to test her legs like a newborn giraffe.

She took one step and face-planted right onto the floor in the most comical of ways.

Bracing her arms against the carpeting to prevent another face-floor contact Mac drunkenly raises her head, confused as to how she wound up on the ground. Chibs' face enters her vision, saying something that she can't quite make out just before his arm snakes around her body and pulls her up off the carpeted floor.

"I think I'm blootered." Mac hiccups. Blootered – or wasted, does not give justice to just how drunk she actually is. Throughout the night she drank nearly ¾ of a bottle of Tanqueray before Chibs managed to drag her _blootered_ ass out of the clubhouse.

"That you are." Chibs grunts as he struggles to maintain a firm hold on the squirming woman, "Put your arms over my neck." He grumbles. She complies, but her arms just sort of limply hang over his back.

"Good enough." He comments her performance almost inaudibly as he carries her into the living room. He gently sets her down on the large brown sofa and moves to get the old blanket from off the back of the couch, but as he does so Mac decides it's the _perfect_ time to sit up.

Her forehead connects with a hard 'thunk' against the side of Chibs' head. She is sent flying back to a laying down position and Chibs falls down, half sitting on her legs as spots dance around in his vision.

"_Owwwww."_ Mac moans.

Chibs shakes his head, trying to find his bearings. Cautiously, he grips onto the edge of the blanket and pulls it down so that it covers Mac's body that is simply too tall from the sofa; her ankles dangle off the armrest.

She sits up again. This time with caution, just to make sure she doesn't connect with any more skulls. Her eyes struggle to focus on only one of the four Chibs' she sees.

"Chibs?" She says clearly with a great amount of effort on her part. She cringes minutely at the bitter aftertaste that nickname always brings. She dislikes the nickname that he insists on being called because of what it stands for. Because to her _chib_ is not a nickname. It's a thing or verb – and it's never good. To her the cruel nickname only serves as salt in the wound.

But the last time she called him Fillip he snapped at her. He said he hasn't been Fillip ever since the night he got chibbed and became 'Chibs'.

And Mac understands exactly what he meant by saying that; Mac has not been Shannon since she was a little girl. When she lost her innocence at the young age she did, it inauspiciously fated her to become Mac and all the associations that come with the name. Shannon is a girl, still trapped on the small isle of Stornoway, innocent and weak. Mac is strong and bloodstained. You can't be those two things at once. Mac barley even recognizes her own name when someone says it now; she's either Mac or MacLeod but never Shannon.

"What?" Chibs ask with a slightly exasperated exhale. Dealing with drunken people has never been one of his fortes and getting Mac to his apartment proved a more daunting task than he realized. She kept forgetting to hold onto his waist as his bike hugged the rounded curves of the California roads and not once, not twice, but _three_ times she completely let go and almost fell off.

"Did you kill Jimmy?" She asks. In the dull yellowed lighting of his apartment the shadows make her face glow a curious pink colour.

Chibs takes in a deep breath and looks away, somewhere over on the off-white wall where Mac's eyes aren't mining a hole into his deepest thoughts, because he doesn't know how to answer that. Not to her, anyway.

"I want to know the truth." She hiccups.

_No,_ _no you really don't_, Chibs thinks. Her surprisingly cold hand reaches out and touches his arm. It's meant to encourage him but it just makes him doubt.

"I probably won't even remember."

Chibs closes his eyes and tries not to tell her because he assumes it will just upset her. The last thing he wants to do is set Mac off, especially when she's drunk and unpredictable. The last thing he wants is to tell her and then have her start throwing the few valuable things in his apartment around – or worse - Cry. Crying women always make Chibs uneasy because it is always such an unpleasant situation for him. Like the time his mother told him his father was dead or the time Fiona cried when they lost the first baby. He never knows what to say to make everything better.

So the women mistake his silence for apathy, which is miles from the truth, and then he just serves as fuel for the fire. In the end his misinterpreted silence usually makes matters ten times worse.

He hates crying.

However, when Mac says 'please' in that warm as honey voice of hers Chibs can't stop the words from spewing forth like verbal diarrhea.

"Yes, I killed Jimmy." His brown eyes meet hers as he waits for her reaction. He expects something – anything that's over-the-top because Mac is more than slightly dramatic, but her blank stare and nod of acceptance unsettle him almost as much as crying would. She fishes out a cigarette from her pocket and scoots her legs up, motioning for Chibs' to join her on the couch.

"Did I ever tell you about my father?" There's a sudden clarity to her voice that Chibs knows is not because she was concentrating hard. It's from talking about melancholy- inspiring events.

"No." He answers.

Mac chews on the bottom of her lip for a long moment. Chibs has to stop her because under the numbing anesthesia of gin she has started to actually chew straight through her lip.

"Are you going to tell me or can I go to bed?" He asks softly.

Mac swallows. A small dot of blood appears on her lip. She's stalling, deciding whether or not she really wants to tell Chibs about her father. The only person she's ever told before was Jimmy and it seems wrong that Chibs and Jimmy will be the only two people, aside from Sarah, who know about her father.

"He was a bad dude… Scared the shit outta me as a lass… He was so horrible to us that I wanted to die instead of have to live with him for one more day," She pauses, eyes becoming misty. She quickly blinks the barrage of moisture away and continues, "Ever wonder why I have all these tattoos?," She gestures to her arms and the tattoos that she's had since before Chibs knew her, "Because the twisted mother fucker liked to use me an ashtray. He thought it was funny the way I screamed." She states bitterly. There's another pause as she clenches and unclenches her jaw; talking about her father is stirring up a hurricane of unwanted emotions inside her.

"You don't have to tell me." Chibs says because he thinks it's the right thing to do, but he doesn't miss the hurtful expression that crosses Mac's face. It reminds him of the aftermath of a slap. Not so much _hurt_ but rather insulted and surprised. It comes from Mac going out on a limb and being swatted down with a broom. She doesn't share tid-bits of her life easily. Sherlock doesn't even know and he is the first man she hasn't been fucking whose had a key to her apartment.

She licks her bleeding lip and lights up a cigarette. She takes in a deep drag and when she speaks again the smoke billows out with her syllables, "The basic point is, my dad was bad news. But he never scared me as much as my cousin. That man – _Jimmy," _She spits with ardent disgust, "was nothing but pure evil. I'm glad you killed him." She finishes.

"He was your family. You're not glad I killed him." Chibs exhales.

"I killed my father." She says so suddenly and so briskly that Chibs' mind has trouble processing what she said. Her words sharply penetrate into his mind and he takes a pause, his cigarette dangerously dangling between his lips as he considers the patricidal elephant she just led into the room.

"It sounds like he deserved it." Chibs says after a moment.

"Just like Jimmy. He deserved to die after everything he's done…" She lets her sentence hang because _that_ is definitely not a trip down memory lane she wants to take right now, "The world's a better place without him. I _am_ glad he's dead. Trust me." She reinforces. The hard glare that had developed as she talked relaxes away as she takes another calming drag off the fag.

Mac catches herself staring at Chibs' face. His eyes – the deep brown that he preferred to keep perpetually hidden behind darkened lenses. His nose - She can remember breaking his nose once on complete accident and then painfully having to set it for him. It was a freak incident involving a long-neck Budweiser bottle and someone calling her 'English'. It was in a bar on St. Patrick's Day in Southie, which is a day known to get more than rowdy. Some little blonde piss princess in the bar had insinuated that Mac was English because of the very slight bastardization of her accent from the years living state side. Mac _hates_ the English with a fiery passion that simply cannot be put into words. It is so deep engrained with her it was like breathing. Mac raised the beer bottle to hit the woman over the head but on the recoil it was sent flying from her loose grip and hit Chibs square in the face, breaking his nose.

He laughs about it now and so does she, even though at the time he was far from pleased. He lividly cursed her to hell and back in ways that bring a whole new level of obscenities into play. To this day, Mac has never witnessed someone so apt at using the words 'shit' 'fuck' and 'ass' as Chibs.

Her eyes finally land on his facial scars. For a few years they gave her a good shock every time she noticed them because she knew him before he was chibbed. But eventually the image of his smooth face faded from her memory and though the marks do not shock her anymore, she still feels a twinge of guilt whenever she thinks about them.

Mac reaches out and touches Chibs' face. She runs a finger down the length of one of his scars, which is normally something Chibs hates, but in this circumstance it feels different than how awkward it normally makes him feel. Her touch is warm and comforting. As her smooth thumb pad traces up and down the slick scar tissue it soothes his mind as he stares into her face.

Feeling the familiar stirring inside him he grabs her hand by the wrists to stop her motions.

"I gave him a smile right before I killed him." Chibs divulges with a whisper. He tests to see how far he can take this new free-flow of information. When Mac looks away, drastically saddened, Chibs fears he pushed the boundaries too far but he doesn't let it show.

Mac is not saddened because of his revelation, however. The regret that grips her chest tight is because she remembers seeing Chibs in the hospital, the 150 stitches in his face and the look of pure devastation in his eyes. That was the only day Mac's ever not been able to look someone in the eyes. He was so lost and so sad. He sat upright in the bed with his eyes focused on the rain battering against the windows that won't open. His face was horribly swollen around the jagged severing lacerations. He kept licking at his stitches, only aggravating the painful incisions more and quite a few times through the visit his sharp intake of breath made Mac's heart flop about.

Chibs' loss was all her cousins fault. That reality gives her more grief than it probably should considering she's not exactly the one who sliced his face and then kicked him in the ribs so as to make the cuts wider and more severe. She's not the one who took away his wife and daughter. She's not the one who ruined his life.

But she _feels _like she is the one who stole everything from him.

She swallows. The tiny bead of red turns into a tear as it drips down from her lower lid. Chibs reaches out and wipes it away.

"Chibs?" Her voice is far away and distant, like someone is using her as part of a ventriloquism act.

"Aye?"

"I'm so sorry for what he did to you." The utterly sympathetic look on her flushed face is almost enough to make Chibs' heartbreak in two.

"Don't be. I look shit-hot." Chibs states. He smiles comfortingly, silently telling her that it's all okay.

Mac doesn't correct him and say she wasn't talking about his Glasgow smile. She doesn't tell him that she was talking about Fiona and Kerrianne because she can see from Chibs' face that he understood her meaning but purposefully chose to ignore it.

So, Mac changes the subject in the best way she knows how, "Wanna smoke some weed? I brought some headies that taste like oranges with me."

"I'd love to." Chibs smiles like a child in a candy store. If there's one thing that Mac is notorious for, apart from speaking frank or her eye-staring trait, it is the quality of her drugs. The various vices she keeps handy are always six shelves above top shelf and guaranteed to get you where you want to be.

Despite the fact she is still rightfully drunk Mac expertly breaks up the large nuggets into the long brown wrapper and quickly pats and rolls the blunt. She even tears off the end of the foil packaging the blunt wrap came in and stuffs it into one of the ends to serve as a something to grip onto so the perfectly cylindrical piece of art that is her blunt doesn't get squished. She lights it up and inhales deep.

_Puff. Puff. Pass_.

She hands off the joint and after the first rotation Chibs can already feel the wonderful drug loosening up his body.

He exhales slowly and then licks his lips.

"That's fucking delicious." He exclaims as he tastes first the sweet peach flavoring of the wrapper and then the citrusy taste of the smoke and it mixes together to create a taste he's never experience before.

Mac smiles a dopey smile, "It better be for $600 an ounce." She snorts.

Chibs chokes on the air he was trying to inhale at the insanely high price.

"Totally worth it though." She grins.

_Puff. Puff. Pass._

Talking about everything and nothing all at the same time they get lost somewhere along the way and don't find their way back to reality until the sun starts to filter in through the venetian blinds. It was easy for them to talk for hours on end because not only have they known each other for twelve years, but in those twelve years they have grown to understand the other completely. In a way that makes Mac homesick Chibs reminds her deeply of Sherlock.

She realizes she misses her friend and it catches her off guard because she didn't expect to miss him. She wonders what he's doing at this very moment and whether or not The Saints are out for her blood yet.

And they are.

_Oh, are they ever_.

* * *

><p>Ace is missing for only two days before the charred remains were found out in the Connecticut woods and identified as the President of The Saints. Mac is missing, but no one paid it any thought because it was not unusual for her to disappear for a couple of day or fourteen, but when the notification of Ace's death was made to his wife the accusation spread like wildfire during a dry Texas summer.<p>

Sherlock tries to stick up for her but with twenty-eight other voices practically shouting 'off with her head', his plea of innocence is lost to the near-riot. He tries each of the five cell phone numbers she has multiple times, but each one either goes straight to voicemail or an automatic message comes on telling him the number is out of service.

He looks for his own reasons alone and not the demands of the club. Even if, and that's _if_, Mac has done this, Sherlock knows it was for a good reason. Mac is loyal to The Saints, perhaps even to the point where it borders on unhealthy and it seems that all his kin Saints are suffering a mass amnesia. They call for vengeance and they call for retaliation. They're lost little sheep without their President and Red is to upset over the loss of his friend to be a clear-headed leader. Red is the one spear-heading the campaign to get Mac.

Not even in Sherlock's wildest dreams could he imagine the feisty woman killing Ace in cold-blood. No matter what anyone else says, Sherlock _knows_ in his heart of hearts that Mac is not culpable. So he searches and searches, scouring over any little shred of information he can get his hands on until he finally obtains a solid lead. Through a contact in Iowa he finds out that she checked into a motel in Des Moines, right off of I-80 only two nights after the police said Ace was shot and burned.

He keeps the information to himself and makes some excuse about his mother being ill and leaves the day after Ace's ashes are spread at Wally beach.

Too concerned with finding his dearest friend, he never even notices the white van that follows him the entire way.

* * *

><p>Saint Matthias the Apostle - The Patron Saint of Alcoholics<p>

p.s. I actually quoted a line from Tommy Flanagan that is in some of the Season 2 behind-the-scenes look. Flanagan said something like _Oh yeah, I'm the best rider on the show. "_I look shit-hot" - and I could not pass up the opportunity to utilize it. :)


	6. Saint Agatha

A/N: First and foremost, I want to say **thank you** to everyone who is reading this and has added the story to your watch/favorite lists. Secondly, finals are next week and it will be at leasts a week until I upload again - but this chapter is extra long so I hope that makes up for it.

Also, I went through and added who the patron saints are that are mentioned as the chapter title – you can find them now at the bottom of the page.

Enjoy :)

Chapter 6: Saint Agatha

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><p><strong><em>1998<em>**

_Mac feverishly runs up the stairs to her bedroom and rushes around like a twister, gathering anything she saw that she may need and stuffing it into a black duffel bag. Her mind is reeling so fast she doesn't have time to stop and think about anything. Does she need her favourite purple shirt? Should she bring all the birthday cards she saved from her mom? What about the rock Sarah painted and gave Mac for her birthday a few years ago, should she bring that? _

_She doesn't know and doesn't have the time to care. She just grabs and stuffs._

"_Sarah, pack your essentials. NOW!" She shouts. In the opposing room to Mac's, Sarah opens her door and sticks her head out into the hallway. All of thirteen years old going on forty, the teenager stands with a hand on her hip and sets a stone cold glare at her older sister._

"_Where are we going?" Sarah demands in a way that perfectly imitates her older sister's demeanor. _

"_We're leaving here. So pack your shit and quit asking me questions." Mac says with firm finality. Being the originator of "the glare"_, _she shoots it right back in a way that leaves an unsaid threat hanging in the air._

_Sarah lets out a scoff, dramatically throwing open the closet doors to retrieve her suitcase. _

_Mac's hands shiver out of control to the point where she can't get the zipper on the black cloth bag to work properly. Her breath is rapid and irregular; still way to wound up from the biggest adrenaline rush she's ever experienced. She places a hand firmly over her chest, as if trying to stop her heart from bursting out of her ribcage, but the heavy _thud-thump thud-thump thud-thump_ of her heart beat only quickens the more she tries to push it down._

_She breathes deep in and out and desperately tries to get a hold of herself._

"_Are you okay?" Sarah asks when she sees how disheveled Mac appears. The taller blonde stands in the corner of her bedroom with her shoulders tensed up so high they brush against her squared jaw. Her short blonde hair is ruffled and stray pieces fall into her face that Mac doesn't even notice. There's a fresh cut on her cheek that slowly leaks crimson and five vivid oblong marks on her neck that will surely turn into painful purple bruises – the same kind of marks that are almost always on Mac's body. Granted now that Mac has surpassed their father in height she is less of a target in his crosshairs and more of an obstruction keeping him from hurting the last person he can – Sarah._

_Mac nods slowly. Her eyes flicker to her little sister for only a quick glance. _God,_ she thinks, _Sarah looks just like mom. _Both Sarah and Mac resemble their Swedish mother to a degree; they both have her light blonde hair, the fair skin and the gracious cheek bones, but Sarah's eyes are the exact vivid blue Mac remembers her mother's as being. The resemblance deeply unsettles Mac in her wired state._

"_We're going to Belfast… We'll probably never come back." Mac says. She expects Sarah to break down and start crying about how she doesn't want to leave home but Sarah doesn't seem to react at all. She just stands there - numbly. _

"_Shannon?" Sarah asks suddenly, as quiet as a mouse._

"_Yea?"_

"_I'm not stupid. I know what you did to Dad... I heard it all." Sarah steps into Mac's own room and in the exchange of light Mac can see the small, but deep cut on Sara's chest that Mac had stitched with a level of precision that results from the many times Mac has had to give herself stitches. The redden cut tied with black thread only serves as confirmation for what Mac already feels. _

_What she has done was the right thing to do. _

"_You don't know anything." Mac defends because she can't let Sarah know. No matter what, Sarah cannot know what atrocity she has just committed._

"_You have a lot of blood on your shirt." Sarah says. She points to Mac's grey shirt, where sure enough, blood spatter has turned the shirt into a macabre abstract piece of art._

"_Shit." Mac curses. She wraps her leather jacket tighter around herself in an attempt to hide the evidence from Sarah but the damage has already been done. Sarah already knows. _

_What Sarah does next surprises Mac to the point that her already stressed heart almost gives out. _

_Sarah stands on her tip-toes and hugs Mac as tight as her petite frame can handle._

"_Thank you." Sarah whispers. _

_Mac returns the hug. A huge weight feels like it has been lifted off her back because Sarah is okay with what she did. Her shoulders become less rigid as she holds her baby sister tight to her body, becoming more at peace with her crime. She places a kiss a top of Sara's platinum blonde head and tells her to finish packing._

_Sarah complies and Mac quickly changes into a shirt that isn't covered with her father's blood. She didn't mean to kill their father, she really didn't. He had her pinned against the wall with his hands wrapped around her throat, crushing her larynx. She hit him once, as hard as she could, in the face just to get him off her and then she snapped. She couldn't take it anymore – none of it. So, she picked the iron fire poker up from the hearth and swung with such posture and force that it was akin to a professional baseball player knocking a ball clean out of field._

_The main problem is, she didn't stop swinging until there wasn't much left to hit. _

"_I'm ready." Sarah says so suddenly that Mac's heart jumps. Sarah struggles to hold the over-stuffed purple suitcase in her hands, standing slightly askew because it is clearly too heavy for her to carry. Mac slings her duffle bag over her shoulder and takes the relatively small suitcase from her younger sister's nimble grasp and carries it with ease._

_Sarah nervously nibbles on the bottom of her lip in a way that clearly speaks to the thin blonde having reservations. Mac, seeing this, puts down the suitcases and squats down slightly so that she is eye-level with her 5'0 sister._

"_What's wrong?" _

_A few small tears fall down Sarah's fleshy face, "I'm scared." She cries._

"_He's never going to hurt us again." Mac coos as she wipes Sarah's face with her sleeve. _

"_I'm not scared because of that," Sarah wails, "I'm scared for you." _

_Mac sighs. Her scarred hands envelope around Sarah's unscathed hands and she squeezes them three times, signaling out their secret code of _I Love You_. _

"_Why are you scared for me?" Mac asks. _

"_Because you're not scared for yourself." Sarah says with wisdom belonging to someone far older than she. Normal people would be afraid after just killing someone, but despite Mac's unsettled nature Sarah can tell that her sister isn't afraid. She sees something else entirely swimming about dangerously in those emerald pools of Mac's eyes. Sarah can see with crystal clarity the calmness that Mac is starting to feel._

* * *

><p>Sherlock gets off of I-80 and pulls into the single-story motel that is missing three red neon letters from its 'vacancy' sign. The motel fits Mac's profile to the very definition. It's the type of seedy place that more than likely rents by the hour, but it's a place where cash is king above all else. With enough money you can make sure no one ever knew you were there or bothered you – regardless of what noises they heard coming from your motel room.<p>

However, Sherlock has his ways of finding things out. No amount of money could keep people quiet after the things he could dredge up from their past with a simple keystroke.

Black mail almost sends itself now.

He gets out of his car and goes into the office where a short, round woman with curly brown hair sits behind an old CRT monitor.

Sherlock digs the crumpled picture of Mac out from his pocket. It was actually hard to find a photograph of her - he had to steal one from her apartment that has Sarah in it. It's a more recent photograph, one that he actually remembers being taken on the previous St. Patrick's Day. The two sisters stand in front of McGreevy's pub, the crowd of people behind them forming a solid wall. Mac smiles into the camera with glazed green eyes and a large smile that spreads from ear-to-ear. She holds a pint of green beer above her head high in salute. Sarah mirrors her older sister's pose, only she had crinkled her nose at the green beer and opted for a Cape Coder. She barley comes up to Mac's shoulder in the picture due to their great height difference - despite the fact that the two look remarkably similar. They do not look alike in a carbon-copy manner, however. It's mostly in subtle things – like how their smiles beam even through the lens; It's in the way their skin is both alabaster and tanned all at the same time; it's in the setting of their eyes, even though Sarah's eyes are blue as the sky and Mac's are a deep green; it's in the way that even though their style of dress is extremely different – Mac always wears jeans, her thick black Doc. Martins and t-shirt while Sarah always dresses to the tens, but yet they look interchangeable with each other.

Sherlock had grabbed the photograph off Mac's kitchen table with plans to return it to his friend after he located her, but now that it is has crumbled from being in his back pocket he knows he can never return the priceless artifact to Mac. Not if he wants to keep all his limbs, that is.

"Hi. I'm here about this woman." He says and holds the picture up. The pudgy woman's hazel eyes don't leave the screen.

He waits patiently for only a few seconds before he asks her again. This time the brunette looks up from the computer screen – her name tag says something that Sherlock doesn't even bother to read.

"_Scary Mary_? Yeah, she was here… oh about a week ago." The woman says, clearly recognizing Mac's photograph, "But I didn't see that other one." She shrugs.

"That's because the _other one_ is dead_._ I need to find this woman do you know where she's going?" Sherlock snaps, having virtually no patience after the twenty hour ride to Des Moines.

The woman goes back to her screen with her pink lips pursed.

Sherlock pulls out a $50 bill from his wallet and slaps it onto the computer screen with an audible 'clink' as his watch connects with the old monitor.

"Do you know where she's going?" Sherlock repeats. The woman grips the bill by the corner and tugs it out from under his palm. She inspects it under the fluorescent lighting in the small office briefly before stuffing it into her bra.

"She made a couple of long phone calls to California." She says.

"Can you give me a print out of the numbers?"

"I don't know how to do that." She scoffs.

Sherlock storms over to the other side of the white ply board desk, completely fed up with the desk troll. He doesn't have the time or the patience to deal with her. The woman – _Debbie_ he can now see, looks up at him in his entire menacing prowess and cowers away.

"Go." He demands, pointing out the door.

Debbie scrambles to get out of the office as per the biker's command. Sherlock sits down in her seat and quickly begins typing away – searching for the records database.

It needs a password, but scribbled onto a yellow post-it that's stuck to the top of the monitor is the word 'tigerlilly'. In complete disbelief that someone could be _so_ stupid he types the password in and is granted access to _all_ of the motels records – including the credit card information database.

It takes him a few minutes to wade through the electronic jumble of numbers but quickly enough he comes across three phone calls made to California, all the same number. Sherlock scratches the digits down on the yellow post-it marked 'tigerlilly'.

Off in the distance he can hear sirens.

Sherlock bolts to his car and manages to pull out of the lot just before the cruisers take the corner onto the rainy road that connects to the motel.

* * *

><p>The internet café in Des Moines is a well-lit corner piece of real estate with bright yellow walls and terminals of mid-range PC's lining the large windows of the storefront. The smell of coffee wafts out of the glass door and into the street, and the rich scent draws people in from down-wind that bustle in and out, quickly grabbing their necessary caffeine fix. Sherlock himself has decided to indulge in quite possibly the most delicious caramel macchiato he's ever tasted. And he's tasted a lot, so that's saying something.<p>

He eases back into the ergonomic chair, swaying slightly in small semi-circles as he waits to the program to finish doing its thing. He uses his own laptop – the Alienware beast of machinery that cost him more than a pretty penny. The software is a program he designed himself – he calls it Waldo after the popular publication of Where's Waldo books. The software sifts through a wide variety of information sources and makes assumptions on where any phone number is located. It uses resources such as what cell phone towers the caller uses most frequently; information that the program automatically gathers from databases that Sherlock can hack with as much ease as stealing candy from a baby.

In lames terms, it finds shit. The only downside is it takes a long time to do so.

Sherlock's already been in the Des Moines hotspot for three hours.

But as if God himself was reaching down and saving Leon from another second of wasted time the program sounds off a ding that means it has found the three most likely locations for the owner of the cell phone.

All the probable locations are in California – which is something Sherlock already knew, but as Sherlock looks on a map all three locations are centered in northern California. A town called Charming has an assurance rate of 92.1%. Rarely has the algorithm ever spit out a percentage above 87%.

He finds directions to the town practically guaranteed to garnish more clues as to where Mac is and takes off – leaving the cute barista a $5 tip on his way out.

He did not take his bike for the trip because he did not want to put so many hours on the precious piece of history. He opted to take his little silver VW Rabbit, the car that Mac constantly calls a 'fart can' due to the customized cherry-bomber muffler he had installed. Every member of The Saints of Boston has at least two rides: a bike and a car, because in the brutal Northeastern winter it's almost impossible to ride a motorcycle.

As he fumbles with balancing his laptop case and getting the door unlocked he feels someone stick something against his back.

And then his body locks up and everything fades to black, just like a cheesy cut-away in a movie.

* * *

><p>The Sons of Anarchy clubhouse during the day time is very different from how bursting with life it becomes when the sun sets, a fact that is familiar to Mac because The Saints station follows the exact same pattern. Dead during the day and alive at night.<p>

While Chibs works away in the garage Mac hangs about the nearly desolate clubhouse. She watches the news on the bar T.V. with only mild interest as they do some fluff piece about a dog show. Most of her focus is directed at the bottle of Jameson Distillery Reserve she slowly nurses.

Mac has always had a healthy appetite for liquor but in the previous weeks it has grown to an insatiable thirst.

She drinks to try and quench the fires inside of her – to try and bury all the emotions she just can't handle juggling all at once. She doesn't know how to outright deal with the fact that her sister was murdered. She doesn't know how to process Ace's botched assassination. She doesn't know how to face the fact that her life, as she knows it, is over at thirty-one. With one bullet not only did she kill Ace but she killed herself.

She'll never be able to go back to Boston.

So she drinks and then drinks some more, hoping that somewhere down the line she'll forget everything. Liquor may be a good anesthetic but it does nothing to numb her mind. It just makes everything worse.

With a furrowed brown she pensively looks down at the bottom of her glass in refusal to blink.

Whenever Mac closes her eyes all she can see is her sister's pale, blue-lipped face lying on the stainless steel slab in the morgue. All she can smell is the formaldehyde and disinfectant.

Mac takes a sip of the warm golden liquid.

"You okay there?" A gruff voice asks from behind. Mac turns in her chair, almost slipping off the side, as she takes a look at the owner of the smoker's voice.

"Hello, Happy. Care for a drink?" She greets, completely side-stepping his question like a mess on the sidewalk. Mac is well adapted to swallowing her emotions in the presence of others and like someone shaking an etch-a-sketch the duress is gone from where it had settled into her furrowed brow.

"It's one o'clock." Happy states dryly, clearly showing no interest in being wasted before dusk.

"Really? That means its seven o'clock in Scotland – a perfectly acceptable time to be drinkin'." She grabs the bottle up the neck and holds it out in front of Happy's face, waving it about in an enticing way. She personally doesn't understand the whole stigma surrounding drinking during the day time and believes that any time can indeed be Miller time.

Deciding that her excuse is good enough for him, Happy grabs a clean glass off the bar and joins Mac for her liquid lunch.

"Alba gu Brath!" She calls in exuberant toast as she holds her glass up.

"Elba..du…_ Cheers._" Happy mutters upon finding he does not have the ability to speak Gaelic. They both take their drinks.

"What the hell does that even mean?" He asks after the burning in his throat recedes.

"Scotland forever, but it loses a little _umph_ in translation." She says.

Mac sits back and takes in Happy's appearance, wondering about the nickname. The dark-eyed man is not even close to bursting with happiness. Rather it seems that a permanent frown has etched itself into his facial muscles. It's a look that Mac recognizes; she can sense it a mile away because she sees it every time she looks in the mirror.

It's comes from seeing too much and not knowing how to forget.

She lights a cigarette and takes another gulp of Jameson – letting the warmth in her stomach grow and spread to her limbs.

"You with The Saints?" Happy asks, waving a tanned finger at the tattoo on the side of her neck – the cursive black writing that simply said 'The Saints'.

"Aye."

"I did some work for them a few years back…They're a good club. I've gotta ask – how does a chick get into The Saints?" Happy's interest has been peaked by the woman with skin the colour of pale sand. There are not many females within the MC world and very few that thrive within his 1%. As one who constantly struggles to understand other people he cannot pass up the chance to dissect her.

Mac takes a drag from the cigarette while she visibly thinks about how to respond. There are so many different things that went into her even being allowed to prospect that it's almost impossible to sum it all up.

"When I moved stateside I got into the underground fighting circuit. The Saints pretty much own that whole scene in Boston and I guess you could say I got on their radar… Then after about two years of hanging around I did my prospectin' - earned my way in, just like you." She goes to take a drink, but finds her glass is empty even though she doesn't remember finishing it. Shrugging slightly at her absent memory she refills her glass while Happy marinates in the information she gave.

"So you're a fighter? What kind of fighting do you do?" Happy asks Mac.

Chibs enters the clubhouse and has to take off his sunglasses in order to be able to see in the space that always seems to be a degree darker than dim. He notices Mac and Happy sitting at one of the tables with a bottle of whiskey. The first thought he has is _I can't believe she's drinking_ and then the second is _Oh, shit. She's drinking with Happy – no way that's ending well._ He thinks this because neither of the two is exactly known for their patience and coddling nature. The second one pissed the other off the clubhouse would without a doubt become ground-zero for WWIII.

"_Stay-alive_ fighting. I don't do that boxing pussy shit." Mac says to a Happy with a roll of her eyes. Boxing, in her opinion, does not even qualify as fighting. Boxing has rules and regulations and padded gloves. That's not fighting. Fighting is bare-knuckled and bloody.

"Boxing is not pussy shit." Chibs defends with a wry look.

"It most certainly is! There's no real risk in boxin'. " Mac scoffs. Chibs opens his mouth to say something but quickly snaps it shut because he's too tired to argue with her. This morning they had spent twenty minutes arguing over Mac's refusal to ride on the back of his motorcycle – with her citing that the reason she almost fell off the other night was his poor driving ability not her blood alcohol level. The argument had drained Chibs because it is hard to argue with her; she is damn good at twisting words around and getting someone trapped behind something they had said or done. Plus, Chibs has brought her to the Sons of Anarchy clubhouse with the specific intent to keep her safe and it would be counter-productive to start another argument likely to end with either him or her calling for a duel.

He doesn't realize that Mac is trying to start a fight that would end in physical violence because she needs some sort of an outlet for the tangled web of emotions inside her. The drinking in the end is only exacerbating her issues and she fears that if she does not find a release soon she could implode.

* * *

><p>Iain O'Brian is a short, pudgy man of thirty-three years with a round face and a knack for bouts of stupidity. He paces around outside the motel room, a cell phone pressed into his face as he listens intently to the voice on the other line.<p>

"_You weren't supposed to _kidnap _him, you buffoon! You were supposed to follow him! I can't believe you managed to fuck this up!"_ The baritone voice shouts.

"Sorry boss." O'Brian says stiffly.

"_Sorry! SORRY! _–" Iain holds the phone at arm's length to avoid hearing damage. The distorted voice of his angry boss hollers away, "_YOU'RE FUCIKED IAIN – FUCKED…. SHIT! YOU FUCKING IDIOT!"_ There's a loud crash followed with the shrill screams of more than a few people.

Iain swallows, his cheeks becoming bright red. He was just trying to show initiative and save time. He and Sam have been following Sherlock since he left Boston and Iain thought that if they forced the man to tell them where Mac is hiding it would bypass having to follow the Rabbit for another week.

There is a brief moment of silence so the pudgy man cautiously presses the phone back into his face.

"_Fix this, or so help me Jesus, I will fucking_ _slit you from ear to ear like the pig you are!_" His boss, Jack Flanagan, threatens.

"Yes boss." O'Brian grunts.

"_One more thing – FUCK YOU!"_ And with that the line goes dead.

Burying the embarrassment he feels, Iain straightens his black coat and barges back into the motel room turned make-shift prison.

On the bed sits Sam Doherty, a young Irish-born man of twenty-five with messy hair the colour of copper, who leans against the headboard as he cleans his revolver. He looks up at Iain with gloomy hazel eyes as he storms through the door, positively flustered and fuming.

"I take it that didn't go well." Sam comments with a snicker.

Iain struggles to say something coherent – he moves his mouth animatedly but no actual words come through.

"Spit it out, num-nuts. C'mon, I don't got all day." Sam taunts.

"F-Fuck you!" Iain stutters. Sam sticks a bullet into the barrel and snaps it closed. He aims directly between Iain's dark brown eyes.

"Say it again. I fucking dare 'ya." He snarls.

From the bathroom a great commotion can be heard as their prisoner wakes up. Iain's eyes dart between the closed bathroom door and then back to Sam – the man who still has his revolver targeted on Iain's fleshy face.

"Don't think you're saved by the bell. I still don't like you, Fatso." Sam warns with a cold glare. He gets off the bed and pushes past the short stuttering man to check on the person handcuffed to the toilet.

"Quit your bitchin'!" Sam demands as he flicks the light on.

Handcuffed with his arms around the base of the toilet, Sherlock's amber eyes stare up with fury at the red-headed kidnapper.

There's a blue handkerchief stuffed into his mouth preventing him from making any solid noise other than the high-pitched _clinking_ every time he bangs his cuffs against the white porcelain.

Sam squats down onto his haunches, coming closer to the bound man's level.

"You're going to tell us where that pretty little friend of yours is." Sam says. Sherlock's eyes narrow and he firmly shakes his head back and forth.

Sam bangs Sherlock's head against the toilet – not hard enough to knock him out but just hard enough to make Leon reconsider his refusal.

Sam pulls the half-limp man up by the collar and slaps his face to bring him back to clarity.

"It's Sherlock, right? That's a smart name and I hope for your sake, you're as smart as your name. I have a job to do, and that job is to find Shannon MacLeod. I know you know where she is, so it seems you're really the only… _obstacle _I have to cross. So you're going to tell me or…. Hell, I'll slice 'ya up and feed you to lard-ass over here," Sam thumbs over his shoulder to Iain, "Because from what I hear she's keen on revenge and would come looking for me. So trust me when I say, I don't give a fuck either way."

Sherlock glares daggers and screams something at the squatting man that is completely muffled.

Sam rests his prominent chin on a fist, looking remarkably similar to The Thinker, and he leans in closer to stare deep into Sherlock's expressively furious face. Sam studies the way Sherlock's muscle twitch under his tanned skin and does so for a few moments as Iain watches from the doorway.

Sam is beyond the definition of a sociopath and the thirty-four 'x's' tattooed into his pale skin only serve as evidence to the man's lack of humanity. He is the one technically running point on this job, specially appointed and called in by Jack to "get the job done". Iain, on the other hand, had volunteered for the job. He is eager to prove to Flanagan that he is capable and perhaps even more motivated to get the job done right – despite the fact that he had inadvertently pissed his boss off by trying to go above and beyond.

Sam studies Sherlock's face only until Sherlock intervenes. He takes a page directly from Mac's playbook and gives Sam a good Glasgow kiss – a head-butt that knocks the Irish man down onto his ass.

Leon screams some more muffled obscenities against the gag directed at both the man in the doorway and the one who scrambles about on the floor.

Sam waves an animated hand gesture at Iain to hold him back as he gets up off the dirty beige linoleum. He clutches at his nose that is now painfully disfigured in a way that will require a plastic surgeon to get it straight. Blood flows from his nostrils like water gushing from a spigot and drips down over his chin and onto the collar of his dark blue button-down shirt.

"Go outside and make sure no one comes in. No matter what you hear." Sam says darkly to O'Brian.

"W-What are you gonna do?" Iain stutters.

Sam's nose whistles as he exhales in a way the turns him into a Pamplona bull, "I'm going to get him to talk." He says.

Sam rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves and Iain goes outside.

He doesn't go back in.

No matter what he hears.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later Sam opens the door, dried blood from his nose hanging around his face and collar. Fresh blood, however, appears in small droplets on his forearms.<p>

The stench of iron hits the man of 5'5 like a sucker punch the second he's through the door.

"She's in Charming. Charming, California." Sam says. He wipes the wet blood off his arms with a white towel, a high-pitched whistling coming from his broken nose every time he breathes.

O'Brian swallows hard, trying to fight back the nausea he feels brewing. He cautiously opens the bathroom door and peers inside.

Sherlock's body is slumped over the toilet, obscuring most of his wounds from full view, but the large puddle of crimson that has gathered on the floor cannot be mistaken for anything less than four pints of blood.

O'Brian looks between Sam and the dead body, wanting to find the courage to ask why Sam had to kill him if he snitched, but another repetitive whistle answers his question.

* * *

><p>Saint Agatha – The Patron Saint of Torture Victims.<p> 


	7. Saint John of the Cross

_**A/N**_: My profile picture has been changed to a sketch of Mac but it's…tiny and I can't figure out how to get a real photo up…. Anyone know how?

So we're at chapter 7. We're half-way, people! Excited? Sad? I think I'm a little bit of both myself.

**About this chapter**:

This is where Happy comes into play and I ended up doing a portion of the story as being told from his perspective which was... complicated and I'm unsure about whether or not I nailed his personality. So please let me know what you're views are.

I also would like to know people's opinions on Mac because I feel like she's starting to become…. Too much, for the lack of a better way to put it.

Enjoy : )

Chapter 7: Saint John of the Cross

* * *

><p>In Boston, Mac's day job was tending bar at the Saint owned pub, Rocco's. Her mind is a vault of various mixed drinks and sometimes it became a betting game to use an iPhone application that is literally an encyclopedia of mixology to see if she could make the randomized drinks with odd-sounding names. She always won.<p>

She takes pride in being a bartender because she does not _take _drink orders – at least that's what she is notorious for at Rocco's. She asks a person a series of quick questions that are all seemingly random and unrelated at the time. That is, until she uses that information and mixes up a drink that she believes it best suited for the person.

She is not a simple bartender; she is a skilled magician of mixology.

It's Friday night and the customary party following church is in full swing. Mac, having nothing better to do, has decided to be all the bar-tender she can be. She stands behind the bar and makes people drinks as they pass through, but for the most part the bikers and biker wannabes are not interested in her mixed drinks. They want everything straight up – or "just give me the bottle", as more than a few have told her. Only seven people so far have been curious enough to see if she really could match them with a drink.

"It's called an Earthquake Cocktail – try it." She hands the short glass filled with brown liquid to Jax. He is the current person deciding to indulge in the service she has offered. He leans over the dark bar, an elbow resting on the lacquered top as he swirls the drink around and takes a whiff of the strong cocktail. Jax is not normally one for mixed drinks, finding they're too girly, but this particular witch's brew burns his nose as he sniffs.

"What's in it?" He asks.

"Gin-Bourbon-Absinthe. Try it." She encourages with a warm smile.

Cautiously Jax takes a sip of the drink while Juice, who sits next to him, watches with up-close interest.

Juice has been sitting at the bar for a while now – talking to Mac while she makes drinks for various people and so far out of the seven drinks she's customized every single person has said the same thing…

"Dude, that's delicious." Jax smiles as he licks his tingling lips. Juice's smile widens to stretch from ear-to-ear. Give or take a few words thats exactly what everyone else has said, including Juice himself. He has received a drink that is just slightly fruity and sweet with the smooth kick of Kentucky whiskey called a Bourbon Daisy that invigorates his taste buds.

"Thanks." Jax gives her an appreciative wave and goes back off to sit with Tara – a woman who has caught the eye of Mac because the brunette seems to fit into the club the way a puzzle piece fits when you cut off the end. It fits but it doesn't. Not really, anyway.

"How do you do it – match someone to a drink?" Juice asks. He chews on the stem of the maraschino cherry that came with his drink as he rests his chin on his hand in a way that gives him a puppy dog appearance. At least that's how Mac views the young man with the tattooed head. He's cute and innocent with a dopey smile. For the lack of a better term he's juicy and Mac is almost willing to bet that a woman gave him his nickname.

Mac shrugs, "Being a bar-tender means you're three-quarters psychologist." It's not really a complete answer but it serves its purpose. The real reason is her ability to pick people apart brick by secret brick, but that's a little hard to explain.

"Amen to that." He takes a sip of the Bourbon Daisy.

"So – what's the deal with Jax' old lady?" Mac questions, as she wipes the stray droplets of liquor from the bar top with a rag.

"Who, Tara? She's a surgeon."

"Surgeon – like a doctor?"

"Yeah, like a doctor." Juice chuckles. Mac's nose crinkles in a grimace.

"I fucking hate doctors." There's a visible shiver that runs up her spin. Her dislike of doctors is more of an unfair association to her fear of hospitals and everything that they stand for. The fear of the sterility and whiteness of hospitals first reared its head not too long after Chibs was hospitalized after his chibbing. Mac has no doubt that seeing Chibs in the hospital has instilled the curious phobia in her that she can't shake.

"Tara's a sweetheart." Juice says.

"A sweetheart doctor, that sounds like an oxymoron to me." Mac mumbles. She takes a sip of her own drink, a cognac and absinthe concoction called a TNT.

"Smart blonde – now _that's_ an oxymoron." Juice laughs. Mac rolls her eyes and flings the dirty rag at Juice's face.

* * *

><p><em>Later….<em>

Happy always wants to understand. He is a person who is anti-social in the textbook definition and he does not experience the typical roller coaster of emotions that he sees normal people go through. They laugh and they cry, they feel happy and they feel bliss, they feel afraid and they feel disgust, they feel sympathy and they feel love – but all those words are foreign to Happy. He understands them, but he doesn't truly know what they mean. There's no image of puppies running through a field when he thinks of the word 'happiness'. His eyes do not burn with tears that as a man he is not allowed to cry when he hears someone sob-story about redemption and love. Happy doesn't really mind though, because being one who does not feel, he does not feel regret or remorse. But this does not keep him from wanting to understand. He'll watch people for hours, carefully noticing how their faces and bodies express what they feel. Happy watches as people cry because he doesn't understand what brings forth such a strong emotional reaction. He wants to feel what can only be felt. So he sits back and observes like a finely trained scientist, taking mental notes on what people feel and how it affects their motivations. He lets his test rats muse around his all-encompassing lab and notices how when someone is upset their brow furrows in the very slightest and there's a drooping in their lids. All this because he wants to understand what he never can; something that can only be felt to be experienced.

But Mac is a different case altogether. He can't read her. No matter how hard Happy tries he can never fully decipher what's going on within that thick skull of hers. At first it unsettled him but now it infatuates him. Is she like him? Is she as void inside as he is?

He watches her laugh as she twirls around a bottle of rum, putting on a grand spectacle behind the bar while people watch. She _seems_ to have all the proper emotions in check. She laughs when something is funny. She smiles to show someone she's interested. She frowns whenever someone asks how she met Chibs, which by Happy's count is now nine times, as if the meeting is something she'd rather not recall. All her emotions are there… _on the surface_, anyway. She laughs with only a passable amount of tone. She smiles with her mouth but her eyes never pull back and glimmer. It's like she only exists in half-truths.

Happy takes a sip from his beer and watches Mac between the shoulders crammed around the bar. She tucks a long lock of light blonde hair behind her ear. The numerous metal piercings that pack into her fleshy earlobe and painful cartilage sparkle under the recessed lighting in a way that reminds Happy of the glint a knife has when it is held at just the right angle.

Even though her face lies at every corner Happy has to admit she is a _damn fine_ whole lot of woman. She is tall in a way that would make most women thin and gangly but she has just right amount of fat padding in-between her muscles and skin. Happy is willing to bet the density of her cushioning is somewhere along the lines of an inch thick along her curves – a perfect thickness according to his calculations made during some… dissections. If there's one thing Happy hates in a woman, above nagging – which he actually hates in _anyone_, he hates a chick who looks like she'll break if he so much as breathes on her the wrong way. Not Mac, though. Definitely not. The faintest of shadows play on her biceps and along the sliver of stomach he can see whenever her shirt rides up. The shallow shadows give evidence of rigid muscles underneath that delicious inked flesh of hers.

He imagines how her muscles would ripple under in him as they writhed about in his navy blue sheets. He wonders how it would feel to have those long legs of hers wrapped around his…

"Happy?" Mac waves a hand in front of his face.

Happy blinks. He had gotten enthralled by his fantasy and didn't even notice she had come over to the table. He knows he should feel embarrassed about the fact that he's got a chubby.

But he isn't.

"You've been giving me the evil eye for the past twenty-minutes." Mac looks none too pleased. Kinda like she just sucked on a lemon.

"Get me another." He leans back into the chair and balances on only two legs as he holds up the empty bottle.

Her elongated, slightly-upturned nose flares in a way that informs Happy she is disgusted at his demand.

"Get it yourself." She pushes the glass away.

"You're the one playing bar-tender, so tend."

"I tend the _bar, _not assholes. Get it yourself." Her tone tells Happy that she's honestly pissed off but Happy feels something similar to amusement and a lasting horniness that needs to be dealt with.

"Listen, bar-_maid_-" He starts with a coy little smirk that is wiped clear from his face by Mac's fist. She punches him hard, right in the mouth and Happy is knocked out of the chair that he brings down with him.

He clatters onto the ground and everything is silent. The fallen chair rocks against the floor with a _clack clack clack_ as the bar instantly becomes silent. He stares up at the ceiling, not fully realizing what happened until someone shouts it.

"She just punched Haps!" Tig exclaims and his tone his giddy – he obviously enjoyed watching the punch.

He pushes himself up off the floor and everyone is looking at him, expectantly. They expect him to hit her back and turn the punch into a full blown assault.

But he's not angry.

He's hornier.

"It's cool." He says. He pulls the chair up off the floor but still everything is silent; they're all stunned.

"It's cool." He says it with menace this time as he glares the crowd down like one large entity. They turn away and the noise resumes with full volume.

"You're at full salute." She comments, rather dryly in contrast to her expression. Happy looks down in his lap and notices the bulge under his jeans but shrugs it off.

Screw Tig. Screw Chibs even though "he ain't fuckin' her". Screw everyone else. Happy wants to screw _her_.

"That was hot." He smirks, ever slightly, because that's what he's trained himself to do. Sometimes you've just gotta fake it until you make it, as his mother always said. There's a sore stiffness in his jaw and a laceration on the inside of his cheek that gushes blood. Mac knows how to pack one hell of a punch and that is hot by any one's standards. It's primal how sexy she is to him. It's animalistic - probably something having to do with biology and evolution, some bullshit about evolution or survival of the fittest. Something like that that Happy can't really remember because his blood is only flowing to one head and it's not his brain.

He tongues the cut on the inside of his cheek that fills his mouth with the metallic taste of blood. It hurts like a bitch.

But it only excites him more.

Happy doesn't look directly at Mac but he can see her in his peripheral vision when she slides into the chair across from him and lights up a cigarette while she looks at him through narrowed eyes.

Happy looks beyond her to the bar where Chibs, Jax, Tig and Bobby still await to see if Mac and he are going to explode like the two unstable elements they are. But they aren't going to collide and explode. At least not how _they_ think.

"Do you get off on that sort of thing?" She asks.

Happy spits a wad of blood and saliva into his empty beer bottle before he's able to speak.

"What if I said I did?" The question is of course absurd but nonetheless he wants an answer. Just to know – just to add it to his endless vault of scientific data on what makes people tick.

Mac leans into the table with her elbows as she speaks, "I'd tell 'ya you're a sick fuck."

Happy imagines that if he felt feelings, he would laugh right now because of how ironically true her statement is. He is one sick fuck, but he doesn't like to get beat for foreplay.

"I don't get off on being hit."

With one of her pale eyebrows cocked high above the other it tells him that she doesn't really believe that. The split second that her eyes stop staring into his dark pits and glance at his hidden crotch then zoom back up definitely tells him she doesn't believe.

Considering Mac does not exactly give off an overly-feminine vibe Happy takes this as a sign that she is like no woman he has never met before. It makes him form a wonderful hypothesis that normal courting rules to get a woman to bed don't apply here. MacLeod is either a lot easier or a lot harder – but there's no way she's following him to bed with his usual romantic forgeries.

"What turns you on?" He turns the tables on her. He twirls the beer bottle around with a lack of interest as the blood spittle swishes about at the bottom as he leans the chair back onto two legs.

Mac chuckles and shakes her head in faint semi-circles, "You are so not it." She stands and takes the bloody beer bottle from Happy's hands, presumably to dispose of it.

"You're cute, though. I'll give you points for originality, too, but no." She gives him a curt, two-fingered salute and walks back to the bar.

Rejection. That's one emotion Happy can tie a specific event and feeling to. No matter how apathetic of a man he is, Happy is still only a man. It still stings to get shot down and erupt into a flaming mess.

"You," Happy calls the attention of a blonde crow-eater on the couches, "Here." He motions with one finger and she obliges. _Time for some therapy._

* * *

><p>"That shit doesn't fly here," Jax says rather passionately with an angry finger pointing at the blonde the instant she is close to the bar, "You're a guest so act like it."<p>

Mac holds up her hands as a gesture of peace, "I apologize."

One of the hardest things for MacLeod to adhere to within clubs is the strict hierarchical set-up. Everyone has a place and a line that they are not allowed to cross. If you cross that line, no matter who you are, there are repercussions. It's the same basic principle in every tier of every hierarchy in every MC. You bow to those above you and the Presidents always have final say. It's an unwritten code of conduct among the various clubs that if you're a guest you abide by common law and behave appropriately. It's meant to keep the peace and for the most part, it works.

"I thought it was funny." Tig beams. Jax's eyes flutter closed for a brief moment as his jaw clenches tight with heavy agitation.

"Oh c'mon, take that stick out of your ass, Jax. Happy got hit by a girl and it was funny. Here, have a drink and laugh." Tig says while pouring Jax a glass of whiskey. Jax's right eye subtly twitches as he stares down the black-haired man.

It is obvious to Mac that there is something lurking beneath the surface of this interaction and decides to keep on walking past the bar then through the front doors.

Outside in the dark night the air has substantially chilled from the downright balmy 82˚F it was earlier when the sun shined bright. Not accustomed to the hot weather and the bright sun Mac has been burning up for the entire day but finally when she's outside she feels back to normal.

The moon up in the sky is bright, hanging low among a midnight blue sheet like a luminescent sickle. The horizon glows faintly with far away city lights. The haze is just enough to wash away the stars save for a sporadic few that barley twinkle. Mac's has always loved stars. Back when she was a little girl her mother would sit her in her lap on warm summer night and point out all the constellations. Virgo, Perseus, Cygnus, Draco… all of them. Her mother would tell her "look, look at the stars, Shannon. They'll help you find your way home". But here, where there are no stars that sparkle in the sky Mac almost feels lost.

Where is her home? Does she even have a home at this point? She used to say that the small town of Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis was her home but then Sarah told her something very poignant that changed that. Sarah said one day that "home isn't a place you're afraid of. It's a place you feel loved". So, Mac started calling Boston her home and she still feels it is but…. It never can be again. Boston is where virtually everything she cares about is. Boston is where Sarah – Boston is where Sherlock lives. Boston is where The Saints are. Boston is where she has a job she loves.

But she can never go back.

She takes a seat on the outdoor table, bending her legs out and resting her elbows on her knees.

She has safely decided against trying to contact _anyone_. With how well connected both The Saints and the Flanagan's are she would be signing her own death certificate by dialing any familiar numbers. As soon as Ace turns up dead she'll be the first one to be blamed because that's _who_ she is to them. She's their dedicated hellhound through thick and thin. It's a double edged sword, being a female in The Saints that is, because you have to be twice as tough as the men to be taken half as seriously and that creates a lot of friction. Every other woman Mac knows takes her for a gigantic bitch because she doesn't take any shit and has a zero tolerance policy for bullshit. The men understand, though, and usually have a respect with the women who are their fellow members. After all, a pair of tits does not buy you a cut. You can only earn by proving yourself loyal, strong and true.

And Mac has done _a lot_ of proving herself and that is exactly why she knows she'll be the first one on the chopping block – and not necessarily in the figurative sense of the phrase.

"It's time to get realistic, Mac. You gotta figure out what to do." She scrubs her face with both hands out of frustration. It's been a week since everything turned to shit and MacLeod has starved away the thoughts that nag in the back of her mind for as long as she can.

She thinks of Sherlock, as she has been with increasing frequency lately, and fishes the throw-away phone out of her jeans pocket. Her green eyes stare at the cheap black polymer that seems to mock her under the moonlight.

She swallows hard and there's a visible bob in her throat as she does so. MacLeod flips the phone open then enters the familiar phone number into the keypad. _675.555.2342_ glows back at her through the night and gives off the faintest glow that illuminates her face when she holds it close.

She nervously nibbles on the corner of her lip. It is probably the fourteenth time she's done this today alone. She gets out her phone and dials his number but she never works up the courage to hit the send button. Mac can handle never speaking to Sherlock again. But if he answer the phone and even he wants her blood? That's something she doesn't even want to imagine.

She doesn't know if she handle losing her sister and her best friend in the same month. Mac still hasn't completely stepped down from the ledge she teetered on after Sarah's death. Losing her club is one thing, but losing Sherlock? That would devastate her. Because as much as she cares for all the other Saints none of them individually mean a fraction of what Sherlock does to her. He's her Jiminey. He's her best friend. He's her confidant. If she lost him it may be the last gust of wind needed to knock her over the edge and send her crashing to the rocky tides below.

Someone once said that you only truly love your family; romantic love is just a politically correct term for lust. Well, Sherlock is, without question, her family. Their friendship is closer than most married couples. She knows _everything _about him and he knows _almost _everything about her (which is the most anyone could ever really hope for). She loves him unconditionally and without reason, even though he's a huge pain in her ass.

All Mac can pray for is that Sherlock loves her as much as she loves him. She takes in a deep breath as her thumb hovers just over the 'send' button.

The heavy front doors of the clubhouse swing open and filter out a few bodies as well as the heavy Hendrix tune that plays from the jukebox. Bringing up the rear behind the small crowd of patches that disperse into the line of bikes Mac notices Chibs coming out accompanied by Bobby.

She gives them a nod of recognition when they wave then returns her attention to the cell phone.

_675. 555. 2342_

Her thumb hovers over the 'send' button.

She breathes in.

Exhale. Press.

She panics for a very brief second but then MacLeod bites the bullet and presses the phone to her ear.

It rings three times before someone picks up. Only that person isn't Sherlock.

"Who is this?" Mac demands.

"Oh now, Mac, that hurts. I thought you said we'd always have Paris…." The voice laughs grimly.

* * *

><p>Please, please, please review and let me know what you're thought are on Happy and Mac. : )<p>

Saint John of the Cross – Patron Saint of Contemplating


	8. Saint Madron

_**A/N**_**: **Thank you to those of you who reviewed and are still reading, first and foremost. I wish to clarify on why I wrote from Happy's perspective in the last chapter. He is going to be more frequent in the coming chapters and I wanted to try and get into his head, because the show doesn't really do that, to try and make him more… known, I guess.

About this chapter: This chapter is kind a heavy with action and I've become saddened because of how dramatic this story is starting to feel to me so this is another chapter that will have some comedy to it.

Enjoy : )

Chapter 8: Saint Madron

* * *

><p><em>675. 555. 2342<em>

Her thumb hovers over the 'send' button.

She breathes in.

Exhale. Press.

She panics for a very brief second but then MacLeod bites the bullet and presses the phone to her ear.

It rings three times before someone picks up. Only that person isn't Sherlock.

"Who is this?" Mac demands.

"_Oh now, Mac, that hurts. I thought you said we'd always have Paris_…." The voice laughs grimly.

Her stomach flops like she's speeding downhill on a rollercoaster. She knows that voice all too well. It belongs to the murderous sociopath by the name of Sam Doherty.

"Sam, what are you doing with Sherlock?" She licks her lips that are all of a sudden as dry as the Sahara.

Sam's disembodied laugh filters through the ear piece as if he just heard the world's funniest joke but only he is privy to the punch line.

"_We've become quite… close after you're disappearance. I don't suppose you want to tell me where you're hiding, love?" _

Mac snaps the phone shut and hurls it into the parking lot. It wizzes through the air in a perfect arc then crashes into the pavement with a force that causes the cheap plastic to burst with a loud crack into shrapnel that scatters in every direction like buck shot. Everyone in the parking lot turns to look at the ruckus and who caused it but Mac doesn't even notice over the horrible churning in her stomach that makes her double-over.

She has to cover her mouth to fight back the urge to vomit. A few loose hairs that have fallen from her pony-tail get caught in her mouth and tickle at the back of her burning throat. The subtle contact is enough to render her fighting futile.

She can't hold it back any longer and her stomach wretches.

Through the haze of bursting bile that burns her nose and throat she becomes aware of someone's hand on her back. Even though the hand is meant to soothe her it physically hurts her back like a punch.

When her churning stomach finally settles she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand then takes in a deep breath to steady herself. Her face has a deathly pallor to it that is magnified by the luminescent moon in such a way that she nearly fluoresces. Mac's blood-shot eyes roam over the parking lot as she takes stock of her surroundings. The group of Sons that lurk by their metallic steeds have their eyes aimed at her: the woman who just turned a cell phone into a projectile missile and then projectile vomited all over the asphalt. She waves a shaky middle finger in their general direction to stop their staring and it's effective enough to where they boomerang her one-fingered salute and resume their conversation.

Chibs is by her side and it is his hand on her back. His face is contorted with concern as he asks her if she's alright.

She manages a nod, "Yeah I uhh," Her voice is raspy like she's smoked fifty cigarettes a day for twenty years and she coughs to clear the tension in her throat, "I think I just had too much to drink."

But that's a lie and even Chibs can see that. Mac pushes herself up off from the bench, being careful not to step in her own mess, and straightens out her shirt. But her face is still pale and dewy with sweat and if anything now that she's standing she looks worse.

Almost like she's crumbling.

"Okay, and what about the phone?" Chibs asks. Mac presses the heels of her palms deep into her eye sockets.

"It pissed me off." She mumbles.

_How could he? How could Sherlock get in bed with Doherty?_ Mac's vividly imaginative mind spins out of control with visions of the contract killer and Sherlock hunting for her. The betrayal overwhelms her. Not even in her strangest dreams would she have thought that Sherlock would turn on her so much that he would work with Doherty – the man who stabbed Mac in the thigh during their last encounter. How could Sherlock work with the same man that he once swore he'd kill if Doherty so much as looked at Mac the wrong way again?

_How could he? How could he? How could he?_

"Mac –" Chibs reaches out and touches her shoulder. As his calloused hand brushes her skin she darts away from his touch, smacking his outstretched arm away from her. Her blood pressure suddenly rockets into the danger zone and her face twists up with a wicked scowl.

"Fucking don't!" She snaps. Chibs takes a step back out of instinct. So abruptly does Mac change gears from quiet to completely enraged that it makes Chibs head stall.

He's seen her lose it before and knows too well what's about to come.

She starts pacing around in tightly wound circles, desperately fighting with herself to not lose control. But as her mind clouds with pure rage and indignation she can feel her resolve slipping between her fingers like sand.

Then it's like a reflex that happens, something Mac couldn't stop even if she tried.

She punches the exterior wall of the clubhouse. As her fist connects with unforgiving stone façade there's a sickening crunch as her knuckles shatter. The sharp pain shoots up her arm and makes her back arch as she recoils and writhes.

"FUCK!" She screams loudly. Mac clutches her arm close to her chest. She grasps tight to her wrist in a feeble attempt to divert some of the excruciating pain in her hand.

Chibs waits to approach her and treat the injury - just to make sure she won't hit _him_ if he tries to help.

Under the dim lighting Mac inspects her hand through the blinding tears that well up in her eyes. The knuckle of her little finger has sunk deep under her skin and taken the adjoining ring-finger knuckle with it.

She's broken her knuckles enough times before to notice the obvious signs.

Mac feels defeated. Completely and utterly capitulated, her shoulder slump low and Chibs can sense that the Mac has fallen back to reality and away from her near Mac Attack.

Chibs crosses the distance between them and gently takes her injured right hand into his.

"Chibs, I broke my knuckles." She groans.

"Make a fist." Chibs demands. Mac does as she told and when she struggles to make a fist her fingers cross in the most unnatural of ways. She rapidly blinks away the welling in her eyes when Chibs touches the tender injury. He presses down onto her two knuckles. Her breath hitches in her throat as the stimulus to her nervous system tenses her body. When he lets loose the pain finally subsides and she breathes deep and heavy; completely spent.

"You broke your knuckles." Chibs confirms. Mac gives him a sarcastic look of _gee, you don't say?_.

"I need a splint." She sighs, slightly pouting as she does so.

"I know. C'mon, let's get you inside."

"And booze, I need booze… Like _stat_." She huffs.

"Aye." Chibs nods in agreement. After that rollercoaster even he wants a drink.

He puts an arm around her back and ushers her inside the clubhouse. They pause only briefly when Chibs takes the whiskey bottle straight out of Tig's hands while they breeze through on their way to the bathroom. Tig shouts objections that fall on deaf ears and completely fade away when the door clicks closed.

Chibs motions for Mac sit on the bathroom counter. So short are the counters that she just rises up on her toes and sits down, firmly planting her rear on green Formica top. Chibs takes the worn, but always fully stocked, first-aid kit out of the medicine cabinet and lays out what he'll need: a splint, tape, and a half-full bottle of Percocet.

Mac drinks from the whiskey bottle, using her good hand while her injured right is held up above her head to try and minimize the swelling. The action is a something that Chibs didn't have to tell her to do because this is fourth time she's broken her knuckles. So, this is in no way, shape or form her first rodeo and she is fully aware of just how much it's going to hurt when Chibs sets her hand. A shiver works up her spine as she remembers the pain when her knuckles were set the last time.

She guzzles from the whiskey bottle and doesn't stop until she needs to breathe.

Chibs shakes out three of the round white pills from the bottle and hands them to her. She pops them back in her mouth like they're Smarties and washes them down with another burning pull of whiskey.

"You're going to tell me what that was about right now. You can't be going around getting into trouble, Mac." Chibs says. Mac dramatically rolls her eyes.

"I know, Chibs. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to lose my shit… It's just…. You remember Doherty?" She asks

"Aye, he's that lad who stabbed you with a fork, right? Then you shattered his jaw." Chibs can't help but snicker at the memory of that night. It was three years ago, the last time he saw her. Mac and the Irishman got into an argument at a bar and when Doherty's panties got in a twist after Mac said something about his father, he jammed a fork into her left thigh. It didn't seem to effect Mac at all. She stood up and punched him in jaw. Then she proceeded to follow him down onto the hardwood floor and punch his angular jaw over and over again.

Chibs heard later from Mac that his jaw had been broken in two places and his teeth were wired shut for six months.

However, Chibs snicker is erased from his face as he remembers more than just that incident. He remembers what Doherty's job is. Doherty is a professional sociopath, a freelance enforcer for whoever paid him the most. The Saints or The Flanagans, whichever one is bankrolling his operation, are definitely not playing around. Sicking Doherty on Mac is a sure-fire way to get her head on a platter.

Mac takes another gulp from the whiskey bottle then sets it down. Her eyes fall to the floor, avoiding Chibs' gaze. She doesn't know quite how to word what she wants to say. It's all so…_messy._

"I… Doherty is working with Sherlock. I'm_ going_ to get found, Chibs. I need to get a passport – "

"You're not going anywhere." Chibs snips. Mac's mouth opens to talk but Chibs starts back up before she has the chance to utter a single syllable, "If you're going to get found this is the safest place for you to be. Here, you're protected. Stop running from everything, Mac. For once in your life fight for something that actually matters!" His words are littered with double-entendres but Mac doesn't know that.

"Wow, Socrates, thanks for the deep advice but-"

"_Shut it! _You're staying." Chis demands with shouting volume and a harsh look directed at Mac that leaves absolutely no wiggle room.

"You have no say in my life, Chibs. If I stay here I drag everyone into _my_ shit." Mac snaps. Chibs' face falls drastically as his eyes pull back with heavy insult.

"I would've thought that after all this time I would have some sort of say-" He pauses, taking in a steadying breath, "Mac, I'm _trying_ to help you. So let me." Chibs says. In one swift, unsuspecting motion he grips Mac's hand and breaks the knuckles back into place. Her bones crunch and pop under him as they snap into position – causing a jolt of pain to Mac that hitches her breath.

Mac screams silently. The pain is too tight in her chest to actually allow Mac to release enough air to make noise. Chibs gives her a light pat on the thigh when he's done – just one that says _no hard feelings, love._

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Mac shouts as soon as she remembers how to breathe.

"Sometimes you've just gotta rip the band-aid off, darlin'."

"You did that on purpose." Mac mumbles with a wry look, something halfway between a pout and a scowl. She hastily grasps the whiskey bottle and takes another long pull that barley burns at this point. She can already feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

Chibs takes the bottle from her, without even looking up from her hand, and puts it behind him – out of her reach. Mac gives only a half-audible grumbling of protest. It's probably for the best, anyway. She's going to be rightly fucked up in a few moments as soon as the pain-killers kick in.

Chibs braces her fingers against the split and begins to wind the tape around. He says nothing and neither does Mac as she watches him tenderly treats to her. The silence of their actions is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, it just simply is. Neither of them has anything to say.

So when Mac speaks as Chibs is finishing she succeeds in startling the former Military-Medic.

"Just for the record, I warned you." She says. Chibs glances up from her hand and gives her a look of inquiry.

"All I know is Doherty and Sherlock are working together and there's no staying hidden from them. They're going to find me and it might get ugly. I really wouldn't hold it against you, Chibs, if you told me to hit the road."

"You're not scaring me off, Mac. I love 'ya too much." He says he loves her without realizing it but doesn't give a damn after he says it because he means it with all of his heart. She can take it at whatever value she wants but he means it. Besides, given their twelve years of close camaraderie love should be expected.

Right?

Mac gives him a small smile and reaches out to give him a hug. It's one-armed and awkward because of her position and injury. But even though the embrace is askew it feels warm and whole. Mac holds him tight and doesn't want to let go. She clings to him for dear life, like she's dangling off the edge of a skyscraper and he's there to pull her up.

She needed the hug badly, though in a court of law she would deny it, and as they pull apart Mac wishes it had just lasted a few seconds longer.

"I love you too, Chibs." She says it and she means it with all her withering heart but in a completly different way than how Chibs intended it. She knows that Chibs had meant it in a romantic way, even if Mac were blind she could see that he wants to be _with_her. It's in the way that Chibs looks at her when he thinks that she isn't looking; full of longing desire that runs so much deeper than lust. Chibs' want to call her his is evident in every word he speaks to her. It's the blatant motivation behind every touch.

There are very few things in life that Mac is truly afraid of. She fears hospitals because every time she's in one, she thinks of Chibs and his stitches and the guilt she has over his loss. She's afraid of The Flanagan Family because they don't care if children and innocent people get caught in the cross-fire of their business. She's afraid of being caught by the law and going to jail for the rest of her miserable existance - she's afraid of loosing her independence. But there's one thing she's afraid of more than any of her stupid, corperal fears combined. She's ashamed to admitt it, but she's afraid of love. She's afraid to get so tangled with someone that she's no longer her own entity. She's afraid falling in love with someone only to lose them as per the grand theme of her life. Mac's not only afraid to fall in love, but she's also petrified of _being_ loved. One thing Mac could never do, no matter how in the red her moral bank is, is hurt someone who loves her. And hurt is one thing that follows Mac wherever she goes.

She can't _love_ Chibs in the way he wants. She just can't. Mac is not built to be domesticated – she's not meant to be someone's _someone_. She could never give Chibs all the things he wants and deserves from a partner. She's not a stable person; she's littered with demons that she tries to keep locked away. She could never offer him stability. She could never settle down with him in the way Mac knows Chibs longs for. Mac is simply just not meant to be with him, or really anyone for that matter.

The mirrored front of the medicine cabinet slams shut and yanks Mac from her thoughts. Chibs has completed fixing her right with a fine finesse. Everything else is up to Mac. All that's left is for MacLeod to do is allow herself to heal – not only her hand but her heart as well after the fatal Judas kiss Sherlock has given her.

It's time for her to move on. Sherlock wants her dead and, in a way, Mac should've expected it, especially considering loss and destruction is the theme of her life. Her existence is ruled by hurt and devastation. It was only inevitable that Sherlock would maim her. She loved him as her brother and he followed the themes and rules of her life like he was reading from a script. It's time for her to pull herself up by her bootstraps and stand akimbo to the world yet again; it's time for Mac to truly be Mac.

She watches Chibs with cloudy eyes as he takes his own much deserved drink from the whiskey bottle. She prays that he is somehow different; she prays that Chibs is the exception to the rule of her life.

Chibs leans against the bathroom wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his hands settled under his arm-pits as he watches Mac watch him.

"Are you going to stay of your own accord or do I have to hold you here against your will?" He asks.

"I think I'd like to stay."

Mac stands up from the counter and the change of blood flow in her body causes the Percocet to rush her like a three-hundred pound defensive lineman. Her chest fills with the warm, fuzzyiness that seeps into her limbs and makes her sigh with contentment.

Chibs takes one look at her and decides that it's time to get the injured Saint back to his apartment and put her to rest.

* * *

><p>Mac lays sprawled out across Chibs' sofa with one of her legs resting on the short coffee table and the other strewn over the armrest. Her dangling foot is haphazardly stuffed into her un-laced Doc. Martins that threaten to fly from her foot as it sways along to keep time. The old acoustic guitar of Chibs' is across her stomach as she lazily plays the familiar chords without much of a care for how it sounds with her injured hand. She just plucks along with the dinged one Euro coin she uses as a pic and ignores the dulled throb from her knuckles that protests her movements.<p>

She takes a pause for a good cause, putting the almost extinguished joint between her lips and inhaling. She holds the smoke for as long as possible then blows it out in rings that float up towards the ceiling. The think smoke curls around the bright afternoon sun that streams in through wide window and washes the neutral-toned living room in a warm yellow. She smiles a dopey smile to herself while her head lulls back, eyes peacefully closed behind her large blue sunglasses while she plucks away at the strings to some old song she can't remember the name of. It's some old blues song that she always used to listen to by Robert Johnson.

As her dangling foot swings and nods to maintain the beat, the buckles on her boots that gather around her ankles clink together to sound out the percussion. Within her head she hears the song like a symphony.

For as long as Mac has known him Chibs has had the battered guitar. A few times she's seen him pull it out and shake off the dust, but for the most part the guitar is just a remainder of a part of him that isn't really there anymore. It's from when he was still Fillip.

Chibs is currenly out somewhere doing _club business_ as he so hastily put it as he rushed through the door, so Mac is alone in his apartment with only her good friend Mary Jane and the guitar. Someone is supposed to come by and stay with her, a precaution Chibs got Mac to agree with only after a very brief argument, but said person has not showed up yet.

But Mac doesn't mind. This is heaven. Just her, her weed, Chibs' guitar and the music she creates. It couldn't get better than this.

As soon as Mac completely settles into her groove there's a quick series of raps on the door, alerting her that someone is requesting entry. She cranes her neck and stares at door for a brief moment wondering if she was hearing things. After all, she is extremely stoned and it wouldn't be the first time she's heard imaginary things.

But there are more curt knocks from the door so Mac pushes herself up off the couch. She grabs her gun off of the table and holds it in her left hand, which is something that feels completely alien, as she answers the knocks.

"Who is it?" She aims the gun right where the chest of the visitor is most likely to be behind the thick wooden barrier.

"Happy. Open the damn door." Happy's gravely voice barks.

Mac mouths an exaggerated plea of _why?_ to the door before tucking her gun in the back of her waist band. She opens the three locks that fit Chibs' front door, one of them installed just this morning (the drill served as Mac's alarm clock), and peers over the rim of her large sunglasses when she opens the door. She glares into Happy's dark orbs, feigning anger that her _baby-sitter_ had arrived late.

"Chibs'll have your arse for bein' late." She says.

"He knows… we got caught up in some club business." Happy grumbles. He pushes his way through Mac and into Chibs' small apartment that lies on the very outskirts of Charming.

Mac shuts the door behind him and locks it back up.

"Club business, huh? Anything interesting?" Mac gives the door knob a good tug just to make sure it's properly secured. For Knox has nothing on Chibs' entry.

"No." Happy grunts. He plops down onto the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table. The SAMCRO Unholy One is obviously in some sort of a tizzy and that is simply not acceptable to Mac.

"Alright, you have two options," Mac takes a seat beside him, "You can smoke with me and cheer the fuck up or you can fucking _vamoose_ because I am not spending all day with a downer."

"Chibs _will_ have my ass for smoking on the job." Happy snorts.

"Aye, but he'd be twice as pissed if you left. Just because I'm down one hand doesn't mean I can't make you leave." Her threat is expertly woven into a light, casual laugh.

"You do not scare me, darling." Happy warns. He makes no attempt to hide _his _threat.

Mac rolls her eyes; she didn't actually want to start a fight she wanted to convince his sorry-looking self to toke up with her.

"_Fine._ Just don't bring me down with you." She warns. Mac grabs the joint off the table and lights it up. As she inhales deep she relaxes into the crook of the comfortable piece of furniture. Her eyes close as she holds in her breathe, finding pleasure in the mild citrusy flavor of the smoke.

"This shit is bomb." Mac taunts. She exhales slowly and cracks one eye open to watch Happy out of her peripheral vision.

Mac takes another quick hit and hands it over to the leather wearing enforcer.

He silently takes it from her hands with a blank expression and inhales.

Mac grins wide enough to give the Cheshire cat a run for his money.

"There's the spirit!" She gives him a pat on the back that makes him cough.

"_Holy shit. That's intense_." Happy manages to say through the heavy coughing that turns his face bright red. As he coughs to the point where he almost expells a lung Mac laughs uncontrollably.

So, maybe to say Mac is stoned is a gross understatement. But that doesn't really matter. This is her nirvana and it feels too god damn good to forget herself that she can't be bothered to care about anyone or anything else.

Without a care in the world Mac feels herself not only relax but she feels a familiar emotion creeping up on her that she didn't expect to feel for a long time.

Happiness.

* * *

><p>When Chibs comes home later that night he is relieved to find that Happy's bike is still in the car park of his complex. He only realized after the fact that he had sent Happy to watch Mac and that it might not have been the smartest idea. But with all the craziness going on right now it had to stay that way. The day had been hectic to say the least, filled with snarky soccer moms demanding that their middle vans be ready by 3 p.m. and freaking out when it was not ready at 3:01. Chibs barley has enough energy to keep his eyes open. But his day is not over yet. Probably not even by a long shot. No matter how much he wants to do nothing more than to take a hot showed and crawl into bed he knows that is hours away.<p>

He groans to himself as he drags his feet up the stairs. Happy has not been answering his phone all day so now Chibs has to pick Mac up and bring her all the way back across town to the clubhouse where she'll be staying. Given that it is only a matter of time until Mac is found now, the SoA station is safest place for her to be. Everyone else had agreed and Clay was actually the one to suggest that Mac stay there.

And just to be nice and extra-cautious, Chibs will be staying there as well.

As Chibs opens his own door he's hit in the face by rush of skunky smoke. He looks around his apartment, through the fog that has been created.

Happy is curled up at one end of the couch while Mac lays sprawled out across it, one arm over her face and her legs falling off of Happy's lap.

Chibs pinches the bridge between his eyes, too tired to do anything else.

It certainly explains why neither one of them were answering their phones, at least. A few times throughout the day he had visions of coming home and finding either one or both of them dead – or worse, fucking.

Chibs slaps Happy lightly on the cheek to wake him up. Happy's eyes flutter open but they're still glossy as silk and filled with sleep.

"She made me." He mumbles as he tries to wipe the dreams clear from his eyes.

Chibs is too worn to argue. He just takes the half-smoked joint from the ashtray and lights it up as he plops into his favourite recliner.

Happy sits up in the sofa, causing Mac's legs to completely fall off of his lap and onto the floor. The motion startles her awake and as she jumps she accidently rolls and ends up falling right off the sofa. She lands on the floor with a firm 'thud'. Happy bursts out in laughter, clutching tight to his already burning sides and Chibs' can't help but join in.

Even Mac, after the initial embarrassment wears off, laughs boisterously at her accident.

It's the little things in life, the simple moments such as this, which make life worth living. Even through all the chaos that has created a whirlwind in her life Mac knows that.

* * *

><p>AN: I also just want to say that Sherlock obviously is not working with S. Doherty, Mac is not an all-knowing narrator and is making assumption. Also, just to let you know that the song she was playing in the story by Robert Johnson is actually where I got the title from.

Reviews are always greatly appreciated, no matter how brief or how (constructively) critical. : )

Saint Madron: The Patron Saint Against Pain


	9. Saint Amelia

**_A/N:_** Okay, so normally I like to be a chapter a head of what I post but I loved this chapter too much to keep it all to myself and _had_ to post it the very second I was done :)... _yay!_

**About this Chapter: **It's a long one with something like 9,600 words, but a lot of that is dialogue. I don't know, I'm really proud of this chapter because I tried _really_ hard to make sure everything seemed believable. The plot is similar to things that have been done before, but I have yet to read a story that has made me feel it was even in the slightest realistic. So please, as always, let me know your thoughts because if this chapter doesn't feel realistic I don't want it in my story. :)

Okie Dokes Artichokes, let's get this party started ;)

Chapter 9: Saint Amelia

* * *

><p>Mac pulls into the shared parking lot of T-M Auto body and the SoA clubhouse a little after eight p.m. in her Accord, which much to the dismay of Happy and Chibs that follow behind her still expels burnt oil every time she presses the gas petal. The twenty minute drive from Chibs' apartment has left both of the pack-a-day smokers behind her with an accelerated case of black lung.<p>

Mac scrambles to get out of the car that is understandably too small for a woman of six feet, slightly falling out as per her normal routine of exiting the tiny cab.

Happy coughs up a lung cookie, a large wad of phlegm, which tastes as bad as the acrid scent of oil smells and spits it out – purposefully aiming for the side of Mac's Honda. The discoloured phlegm lands smack dab in the middle of the rear driver's side window and sticks for a few moments before streaking down – leaving a trail of slick mucus behind it like a snail. Mac looks from the lugee that has been hacked then back to its maker. She's not happy with Happy.

"Don't be a dick." She says dryly. The sarcastic comment earns her a one-figured salute from Happy that he so proudly thrusts forth.

"You need a new car. That thing has been dead for two years." Chibs says, offhand, as he takes off his helmet and hangs it over his handlebars.

"No, what I need is a new bike." Mac scoffs. Even though she has been on a motorcycle since she came to Charming, it was only riding bitch with Chibs. She urns to actually get behind the bars and feel the power of the metal behemouth rumbling beneath her. When she rides it's the epitome of freedom. Speeding down a road, hunching down low to be as aerodynamic as possible with the wind rushing all around her Mac always feels so free that it's comparable to flying. Riding is her release, her escape from everything and so far riding bitch has not fulfilled her need. If anything, riding with Chibs has only served as fuel for craving the open road.

"Well, you can worry about that when you're off of lock-down. You ain't goin' anywhere until then." Chibs says, bringing Mac away from imaginging racing down the road and hugging her bike like a lover while it gracefully eats asphalt.

"_Lock-down? _I agreed to stay here, not to be held prisoner._"_ She protests. Dramatic as always, she literally lifts her foot up and stomps it down for emphasis.

Chibs directs a hostile finger at her when he speaks, "Don't argue or I _will_ tie you up. It's for your own good."

"Kinky." Tig smirks, suddenly appearing by the trio as if out of thin air – or like that one pesky insect that will just _never_ leave you alone on warm summer days. The bug is gone one second and you think _oh, this is nice _and then they're right back in your face, buzzing around and irritating the shit out of you. Mac personally likes the latter of the two. It's much more _Tig._ Mac does a quick scan of the parking lot with green eyes that remain slightly reddened from her afternoon with Happy and finds that all the bikes are still lined up by the low concrete wall outside the clubhouse. It strikes her as curious to see that all the Sons are still here but yet no one else is. It's definitely not a party. It's definitely not Church. So it must be club business.

And Mac knows from personal experience that when club business runs into the night it is _never_ because of a good thing – otherwise it would be a party. MC's are just like that – _any_ excuse to throw a party is a good excuse.

"This club business you guys had earlier…is there something going down?" MacLeod quips.

"Club business is club business, not Mac business." Tig says, a little hurt that she didn't even seem to recognize his abrupt entrance. Mac turns on her heel to face the black-haired man and give him the attention he is craving like an ignored step-child.

"I'm in a club, too, 'ya know? I know _club business is club business, not Mac business_, but it would be nice to at least know some base-line information. Maybe I can help." She offers - her accent impossibly thicker in her hurry to speak.

"I doubt that." Tig snorts. But then there's a change in his face: his already bug-esque blue eyes get wider.

"_Acutally…"_ He says breathily, as if to himself, before quickly darting back into the clubhouse with a neat little spring in his step.

It's really no wonder why or how Tig got his moniker. He bounces around just like the fictional character Tigger with a spring in his tail. And, he's childish enough to be deserving of a nickname derived from the obsession of many toddlers, Winnie the Pooh. _Oh, yeah._ Mac can _definitely_ see the resemblance that earned the grown man his cognomen.

"What the hell was that about?" Mac asks to Chibs. Chibs shares a brief, worried look with Happy whose dark brown eyes peer out through eyelids that still droop with sleepiness.

"Let's go talk to Clay." Chibs says.

* * *

><p>"Wait there." Chibs hastily instructs Mac, giving a crude motion to the small sofa by Juice's computer. For once, she doesn't have anything to say about the matter and silently goes off and takes her seat.<p>

Chibs, thankful for small miracles, walks next to Happy as they approach the group of patches mulling about the bar that Tig is already addressing with grand animation like he is a world-renowned orator. While Tig talks directly to Clay everyone else situated around them listen intently. Juice sits at the round table closet to the bar with a beer in his hands along with Jax and Opie, both of whom who also hold the hops-containing alcoholic beverage. Opie leans back in his chair with one arm over the back while Jax leans into the table with his shoulders hunched up. Clay, Bobby and Piney all sit around the bar itself. Clay smokes on a cigar, a short glass of whiskey nestled into his left hand; Bobby holds a joint in-between his thumb and index finger; Piney watches the two with understandable longing. But one thing that all seven people have in common is the varying degrees of bemusement in their expressions – from Kozik with wider than wide eyes, who stands between the two groups like an intermediary, to Clay who looks like he's almost ready to shit a brick, it's unanimous. They're all dully surprised by whatever it is Tig is suggesting to fix the most recent problem of the Sons.

In all fairness, to call what is happening right now with the Sons really isn't a problem so much as it is a class 4 shit-storm. With the new Sheriff in town the Sons of Anarchy have not been free to enforce their laws of Charming that kept the streets clear of human trash and the air free of drug vapors. What they're dealing with right now is like the Nords all over again, only this time on steroids. A small break-away group from The Russians who refer to themselves as 'The Russian Kings', even though they're far from kingly, have begun to move China-White heroin not only _through_ Charming but also _within_ its city limits. The frenzy this morning came to rise when the body of Alexandria Monroe was discovered up in the old quarry on the outskirts of town. The twenty-year-old college Freshman was found raped, beaten and dead of an apparent heroin overdose. She was last seen at The Russian Kings' main HQ, a strip-club in Chester, California cleverly called Puss-In-Boots.

The Russian Kings have officially claimed the first fatality in what is sure to be a long and grueling war. This morning was an emergency church on whether or not to dive head-first into retaliation. It had been a completely split decision and left to linger on the table until a more viable option was presented for taking the Russians down.

When Chibs and Happy close the last remaining paces of distance, Clay turns to them and holds up an arthritic hand to silence Tig.

"Tig is suggesting we use your girl to get to the Russians." Clay states.

Chibs directs his narrowed brown eyes at Tig, telepathically promising to rip out the man's throat for offering up Mac like a juicy steak, "No. She's here to be safe – she's supposed to be on _lockdown_, she's not here to be taking care of _our_ business."

"Hear me out, man." Tig starts, physically waving off Chibs' angry glare, "She's _hot_. The Russians like hot chicks. If we can turn her into Stripperella, she could find out some real useful shit." He finishes with exuberance, secretly giving himself a small pat on the head for coming up with such a brilliant idea.

"In case you haven't noticed, she's not exactly their type, _Tig_. They don't like 'em affiliated, they like 'em dumb and full of drugs."

"But that's the thing! They don't know she's with us, if we-" Tig's defense is cut short by the Scotsman.

"Look at her – she's a god damned billboard for The Saints!" Chibs blindly gestures over his shoulder to where Mac is sitting in Juice's office, hidden by the half-wall of the clubhouse entry way. Not only does she have 'The Saints' so proudly tattooed on the side of her neck but with her multitude of tattoos that cover almost every inch of her skin, there's no way she could ever pass for anything less than what she is. One badass chick.

"Lyla's real good with make-up, she's got this butterfly tattoo that she always had to cover up for work. After she does her thing you wouldn't even be able to tell." Opie says. When Chibs directs his fiery gaze at the bearded man, Opie suddenly becomes very enthralled by the label on his beer bottle and doesn't look back up.

Chibs is now beyond peeved and pushing infuriated that Tig took it upon himself to suggest that Mac could be beneficial to the Sons. She's here to be protected and lay low. There is no way Chibs is about to let MacLeod stick her neck out for them and risk everything.

"No." He states firmly, arms crossing over his chest. With his sunglasses pushed up high on his forehead and his shaggy brown hair falling down in his eyes he looks only marginally less than intimidating.

"She offered to help!" Tig exclaims, making an exaggerated point of gesturing in Mac's general direction.

"I think she should do it." Happy says, his sand-paper voice now officially rubbing Chibs the wrong way. He could honestly hit Happy right now because he's so pissed and it shows.

"Will you hold on just one damned minute? We don't even know if we can trust her." Piney pipes up, his voice booming over the bickering. People may say what they will about the old man losing his vigor, but if there's one thing he's always good for it is looking at a situation from all perspectives. And right now he is voicing everyone's secret concern that they don't know her. All the Sons of Anarchy have heard the stories about how tough and battle-ready she is from the recounting of memories by Chibs. But stories are just talk, and when it all boils down to it talk is just coffee house bullshit that means nothing.

Hushed mumbles of agreement with Piney fill the bar like the thick smoke.

"If Chibs trusts her _and_ she's with The Saints, she can be trusted." Happy says without so much as a millimeter of doubt. Everyone, including Chibs, turns to the tanned tattoo artist for further explanation about his unforeseen support. Happy is by far the last person Chibs would expect to say he _trusts_ Mac - no matter how much "bonding" they've done in his apartment.

"I've dealt with The Saints on some jobs out East for SAMBOS. They're a hardcore crew and getting in with them means Mac's as tough as they come." Happy pauses quickly, trying to think of her rank. When he completely comes up blank, meaning it's something he either never noticed or never asked, he asks Chibs what her position is within The Saints.

Chibs considers not answering, but does anyway and as he does his voice is weighed down by hesitation, "Hellhound."

Happy is visibly impressed by Chibs' response. He blinks slowly at first and then gives the subtlest of nods that serves as the phyiscal representation of his silent approval and respect of that position and, by extension, his silent approval and respect of Mac herself.

"A hellhound? That sounds…" Jax starts with a wry look.

"Ominous? Trust me, it is. Look, if she's hellhound, then I have to say she's actually over qualified for dressing up like a whore and getting information."

"What's a hellhound?" Bobby interjects.

Happy scratches at the slight stubble on his chin as he thinks for a moment, trying to figure out the specific formula that a hellhound is composed of. He looks to Chibs for help in divining an answer, but Chibs shakes his head quite adamantly, indicating he has no interest in contributing any further.

After what feels like forever in which time the anticipation around the bar has fully reached its crux, Happy finally speaks.

"In our terms – she's part me and part Sergeant-at-Arms."

All seven patches, minus Happy and Chibs – who looks like he's about to rip Happy _four_ new ones, lean and cock their heads in order to be able to see around the wall that Mac is hidden behind and get a view. Apparently, the general consensus is they're impressed or shocked. And from that Chibs can deduce that his objections are now futile.

"But that still means nothing for us trusting her." Piney says.

"I trust her. She's saved my life twice and that counts for a whole shit ton in my book." Chibs huffs, downright insulted that his brothers were questioning Mac's character. Granted, they don't know her even a sliver as well as he does but to Chibs that is still no excuse. He trusts Mac completely and even though he does not want her put in harm's way it's more important to him that he defends her honour. However, as soon as he says the words Chibs regrets them because he has inadvertently given the Sons the best reason to trust her. Chibs could slap himself he feels so stupid.

Even Piney says nothing at this point – picking up on the passion behind Chibs' words that even people in China caught on their radars.

Clay takes a puff of his cigar and swirls the smoke around in his mouth while he contemplates putting Mac into play. Chibs knows better than to beg Clay not to used Mac, but right now his sound judgment is altered because his top priority - the same priority for her safety that he assumed Clay shared, has a hold of his reins. He silently pleas with the grey haired President to not put Mac at risk. Clay notices the near despair on Chibs' face but ignores it for the good of the club. They need to put an end to "The Kings" being in Charming and that priority is paramount over all else.

Clay, at first, was completely adverse to Tig's suggestion and took it with a humorous grain of salt. But knowing that Mac is more than equipped to handle herself allowed him to discarded his reluctance over safety. Clay is still not on-board with giving an outsider the important task of SoA business. _He_ does not know Mac, therefore he does not trust her –but with Chibs defending her even though it's vehemently blatant he does not want her to do this, Clay's interest has officially been piqued.

Clay gives Chibs a half apologetic, half '_your _culpa' look with his dusty blue eyes accompanied by a small double-shrug, before turning his attention back to his right-hand man.

"So, what's this plan of yours, Tig?" Clay asks the SAMCRO Sargent-At-Arms.

Chibs fights his internal urge to sling Mac, who would without a doubt scream bloody murder, over his shoulder and get as far away from Charming as he can. He was stupid to think that the Sons would want to protect her like Clay had promised they would. Clay _promised. _He swore to help keep Mac save and now he's advocating putting her in the line of fire? That shit does not settle well with the 44-year-old Scotsman to say the least. He feels like he just got slapped in the face with an iron skillet.

Clay must be able to sense this because he gives Chibs a look, a demeaning wayward look with his head half-cocked that tells him '_easy, boy'_.

Chibs pulls in his cheeks and chews on the scar tissue that runs the internal length of his mouth to stop himself from saying anything he will regret later.

"Well, we know the Russians work out of that strip-club, Puss-In-Boots, over in Chester. So, if we can get Mac in there, undercover – of course," He grins like a fool at the idea of seeing Mac in stripper get-up, "we can have her to find out where they're storing the drugs. Then it's burn, baby, burn." Tig orates.

"What about protection, huh? How are we going to protect her without revealing her affiliation with _us_?" Chibs asks.

"I don't _need_ to be protected. I can do that just fine all on my own!" Mac's voice hollers from the opposing side of the clubhouse.

Apparently, she has heard everything.

Chibs turns around so he can see her. She stands by the pool tables, defiant as ever, with her decorated arms crossed over her chest. Chibs does not miss it, hell he would be willing to bet it could be seen from the space station, the deeply engrained look of pure excitement on her face. At first Chibs is upset but on second thought he knows he shouldn't have expected anything less. That woman is addicted to danger and illicit activities. After being dry for so long she's chomping at the bit to _do_ something. Even though they're separated by a fair distance and the clubhouse is poorly illuminated Chibs can see that her deep green eyes shine bright with the thrilling idea of getting a fix. _NoNoNoNo_ plays like a broken record within Chibs' mind. _No. No. No. NO!_

Clay motions with two fingers for Mac to come over, much in the way a baskeball coach reluctantly summons a benched player when his star shooter has been injured.

"What'd you got to say about Tig's plan?" Clay asks Mac.

"Other than that it's weak? I look _damn_ good in fuck-me heels." She grins wide, admitting she's all in.

"What do you mean _weak?_" Tig shouts, offended by how Mac put his plan down like a sick dog.

"Just going in and finding out where they store their drugs and burning the place down doesn't stop their operation. It just puts it under construction. Russians are nothing more than Vodka-loving cockroaches and if you really want them to stop, you need to exterminate the infestation."

"And by exterminate the infestation, you mean –" Clay lets his sentence hang so Mac can quite literally fill in the blanks.

"I mean _exterminate_ the infestation. Take care of the problem_._ Send a message. Make them see it your way. Eliminate the competition. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Catch my drift?" Mac's cheeky comment hits harsh like the crack of whip. Chibs gnaws harder that the insides of his cheeks, holding back the long list of lewd objections that scream in his head. _You're out of-fucking-order! _

Clay does not appreciate her smart mouth in comparison to Happy who now has the same glint in his dark eyes that Mac does.

"That will cause a war we don't want to bring to Charming." Clay says. The harshness in his tone coupled with his facial sneer and the way he stares her dead on with his foreboding eyes is a trademark look of Clay's. It's meant to establish dominance and crush any lesser being. Yet, it doesn't seem to affect Mac at all. She brushes it off like a speck of dirt on her shoulder.

"From what it sounds like, they've already brought the war. It's just time for you take arms and defend your home." Mac says coolly. Aside from the slightly more than obvious glee in her eyes she leans against the bar top with a confident air of nonchalance.

This is where Clay's body language drastically changes and everyone gathered around the aging President notices. No longer is Clay put-off by how ballsy and outspoken Mac is. The fact that he gave her _the look_ that has made lesser _men_ piss themselves and she _still_ spoke her mind impresses him in a way that's outside of the realm of comprehension. In that instant Clay sees his wife within Mac. Even how Mac leans against the bar, with one hand on her hip and her face set hard like granite seems to mirror Gemma's demeanor perfectly. Mac even gives off the same exact vibe of 'don't fuck with me, or else' as well as the same underlying scent of confidence as Clay's near-infallible wife. The likeness would be creepy if it wasn't so… scary. There was once upon a time Clay prayed that there was only one Gemma in the world because, to be frank, he doesn't think the _whole world_ can handle two Gemma's.

"What would _you_ do?" He offers, much to the visible surprise of those around him.

"Since when do we let _women_ take care of our business?" Chibs shouts when his gnawing is no longer effective at keeping his protests mute. Mac's beaming confidence falters only slightly, turning a furrowed brow on her friend; hurt by his comment. Mac has worked too god damned hard in her life to be thought of as "just a woman" and it's more than insulting that Chibs of all people would view her as nothing more than a pair of tits.

"Chibs, I think you should go get some air." Clay says without switching his focused attention from MacLeod.

"I'm fine." Chibs snaps.

Clay turns to Chibs, his eyes as scalding hot as fire and brimstone, "Outside. Now!" He orders.

Chibs shoots everyone, including Mac, a glare that gives representation to how betrayed and angered he is before storming out of the clubhouse. The heavy front doors bang shut behind him with such a force that Chibs must've slammed them behind him on his way out.

"That man wears skivvies under his kilt, I swear." Meaning that Chibs is acting less than manly, Mac says this with an irritated roll of her eyes that expertly covers up how sincerely hurt she by his comment. After all these years, after _everything_ they've been through, she really thought that Chibs wouldn't view her as just another woman – some damsel in distress who needs saving and protecting. However, in reality that is far from the truth. Chibs knows fully what Mac is capable of and thinks of her as one of the strongest _people_ he knows but the fact that she's still fighting him every step of the way when he's just trying to protect her is starting to get the better of him. There's only so much resistance someone can take before they break and give in. Well, Chibs refuses to give and in and demeaning her was a hail Mary shot intercepted by Clay. It was Chibs' desperate last effort to get everyone to take Mac's safety back into consideration.

Clay presses MacLeod for an answer with an rolling hand.

Mac takes one of the empty seats at the bar, in between Clay and Bobby and lights up a cigarette as a stall tactic to actually formulate an answer. The cigarette dangles between her naturally peach coloured lips while she absent-mindedly rubs at the back of her neck; deep in thought.

The growling noise of a bike starting up followed by the prompt revving that means the bike sped out of T-M with formidable speed filters in from the outside and into Mac's thoughts.

Chibs has left the building. Not so surprisingly Mac is actually grateful that he did. A ride will clear his head and hopefully make him see the situation with the same pair of emotionally detached eyes the rest of his brothers do: There's no way a Son could get to the Russians, but a certain Saintly daughter sure as hell could.

Mac takes a long drag from the cigarette before taking it out of her mouth so she can voice her plan. With the dangerous twinkle in her vivid eyes and a darkly twisted smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth she speaks lowly, as if giving away a secret, "You say they work out of a pussy club, right?" She asks and Clay gives a nod, prompting her to continue, "Right, well, I would go in and scout the place out in order to actually come up with a _real_ plan of attack, but basic point is I'd find a way to lure the big fish into a trap and take them all out in one clean swoop. All cockroaches eventually die after you chop off the head and that's what I think should be done here." Her metaphor lingers. _If you take out the men leading the operation here, they'll die out. Once and for all - they'll be too scared to come back._

The bar is silent save for the murmurs of talk and the faint clinking of pools balls from the prospects that play pool with a few hang-arounds and sweet butts.

"That sounds like it would take a while." Jax says.

"_Puh-lease_. These tits," she makes a crude gesture to her voluptuous chest, "are magical," Both Tig and Happy can attest to that, and Tig's cheeks gain the faintest of red hues, "I would have them eating out of my palm in no time." She relaxes her back against the heavily lacquered bar top and watches the faces of the Sons closely. Tig still looks somewhat offended, but more turned on than anything else; Opie scratches at his beard in contemplation; Piney takes a deep huff from his oxygen; Jax looks down at his hands, his visible profile twisted up with some indecipherable thought; Kozik leans back onto one foot with his arms over his chest, agreement creeping up on his face; Bobby takes a toke and mutters something about 'damn good' and Mac doesn't know if he means the weed or her plan; Juice looks excited; Clay pauses for thought, taking a swirling puff from his cigar and a casual sip of his whiskey.

So Mac waits patiently while the patches mull it over...

"My plan was better." Tig mumbles under his breath, only audible to Juice who sits next to him at one of the tables – just within hearing range of the Sargent's comment.

"You wish." Juice snickers to the black-haired man that instigates a slap upside the head that Tig delivers. Juice grimaces, holding onto the back of his head as his sinks down into his chair.

Mac gently rubs her knuckles to soothe the pain that still dully throbs through the whole body numbness she feels, an effect of popping those lovely little Percocet's all day long. Clay notices this out of the corner of his eye.

"Are you even in the condition to be doing this? What about your hand?" He asks, with a nod that gestures to the injury she tenderly rubs. Mac looks down and takes in the appearance of her broken knuckles. The swelling was real bad the past two days but right now it has subsided to the point where she can see the knobs of her knuckles among the blue tint that reminds her somewhat of the colour someone's lips have when they die from suffocation.

An image of Sarah flashes through her head.

Mac slams her hand down on the bar and allows the pain that jolts through her body to remove the memory of Sarah from the front of her mind.

She doesn't even wince as the pain magnifies, rather she seems to revel in the sharp ache that emanates from her knuckles. It is clear as day to the Sons, most notably Juice who winced and looked away when she hit the counter, that her hand is no problem.

"I'm good." She's says. There's a vague feeling of deja-vu lurking in the back of her mind but she physically shakes it away.

Clay takes a puff and exhales with his eyes keen on Mac the entire time. She stares him right back, never once wavering or looking away – not even when two pool balls slam together and the sharp sound cuts through the tensing air. It's a silent test that all animals from dogs to mankind participate in.

The stare down. Mac understands this because if you can't even look someone in the eye for an extended period of time, you are not trustworthy and therefore by no means the dominate one.

The stare down Clay has locked her into is almost funny to Mac because if he knew her at all, he would know this is something she could do all day long.

"Let's make it a vote." Jax says. He has been remarkably quiet the entire time, especially for his position as Vice President. Mac only turns to him now and notices how he is hunched over the table, giving his own version of the stare down to the empty beer bottle he holds with both hands.

Clay smirks, "Alright. Up for vote is sending Mac into Puss-In-Boots. I say 'Yay'-"

"We should wait for Chibs. The whole club votes." Jax snaps at his step-father. He clearly is not on board with this and that makes Mac resent him only slightly.

"I think we all know what Chibs' vote is. We'll count in a _nay_ for the princess." Clay says, mockingly, as he gestures to the door that had been slammed shut only minutes ago by the angered Scotsman.

Unfortunately for Jax, everyone else agrees with Clay. It's clear that Chibs' vote is a firm _no_ and they move on.

"Piney?" Clay starts the vote again.

Piney looks over Clay's shoulder to the blonde and his eyes linger for a moment, "Do you think you can really do this?" He asks her. Mac nods. _Without a doubt._

"Aye." Piney says with a heavy sigh.

"I can dig it. Aye!" Bobby says with a wink to Mac that she playfully returns. Bobby is a man Mac has started to become fairly fond of already. Bobby is who Mac would expect Santa Claus to be if he smoked a ton of grass and belonged in a club, and Mac likes that.

"No." Jax says, pounding a fist on the table for emphasis. He doesn't look right at Mac, rather he completely bypasses her and gives Clay a shake of his head that couple with pursed lips tells Mac he holds a lot of resentment towards the President for essentially green-lighting putting Mac in middle of their business.

Opie looks away from Jax and up to Mac, "This is a big deal. Don't fuck it up," He lets his warning settle before voting yes. Jax stands up from the table, his chair falling out from under him as he storms out of the clubhouse much in the same heated fashion that Chibs did earlier. Jax doesn't slam the door though, it just silently swings shut behind him.

Juice clears his throat, "Aye."

"Oh, hell yeah. I can't wait to see you in your _uniform_." Tig grins at Mac. One of her eyebrows cock and her lips purse in a way that threatens to wipe the grin clean from his face.

Now it's just up to Happy. All eyes are on the stoic man, waiting with baited breath.

He pays no mind to the six sets of eyes pointed at him, but instead looks at Mac for the entirety. He nods a slow, silent 'yes'. She gives him a curt nod of gratitude.

A beaming close-lipped grin pulls back the President's whole face, "Seven-to-Two, that's a majority vote, Mac's turning into Stripperella!" He raises his glass and slams it back down onto the bar as a make-shift gavel.

"Someone should go tell the prince that the vote passed." Tig snickers.

"I ain't touchin' that mess with a ten foot pole." Clay mumbles into his glass as he takes a sip.

"I think I know why he's upset... Can I get a bottle of whiskey, please?" Mac asks Clay. He nods and reaches around the bar to grab a bottle of Jack Daniels.

"He just gets pissy sometimes. Going out there could be a bad idea." Clay warns, full disclosure and all, as he hands off the bottle.

"I've dealt with worse." Mac mumbles. She carefully tucks the bottle under her left arm and sets out to find Jax.

She finds Jax outside, sitting on the same bench that just a couple of nights ago Mac sat at when she made the phone call that set into motion a rather unfortunate series of events that left her with two broken knuckles. He sits much in the same posture she did, his rear on the top of the table with his feet on the bench, his legs bent out and his elbows resting on his knees. His head, however, is not bowed but rather he stares ahead while he takes deep, hurried drags off of a cigarette.

"Mind if I join you?" Mac asks, holding out the bottle of Jack's as a peace offering.

For all the hard feelings Jax has about tonight, none of them are focused directly on Mac but rather on the situation as a whole, so he gives a half-hearted shrug for a response. It's not that he doesn't trust _her, _he just doesn't trust anyone.

_Great. Their VP is a piss prince. Awesome club you've got yourself, Chibs._ Mac thinks to herself as she takes a seat beside him and mimics his comfortable posture. It is proven that when people are friends they will subconsciously mimic each other's posture and if you make a conscious effort to mirror someone you can forge such a kinship. So, Mac has found herself in a rather lucky spot. Not only does she gets to sit in the very un-ladylike way she normally does, but now it will also serve a purpose.

She holds the whiskey bottle between her knees and opens the cap with her good hand – offering it first to Jax who turns it down. She gives an apathetic shrug, _more for me, then_, and takes a good pull that satisfyingly burns her throat. No pain, no gain does apply to more than just working out, after all.

"So, you pissed because I'm a chick or because I'm an outsider?" She asks with her accent thick and heavy to the point where Jax doesn't understand her. Being around Chibs constantly has somewhat equipped Jax with the ability to figure out what English words are hidden under brogues but hers is thicker than his and requires more conscious thought. In Scotland, Mac lived in the small fishing town of Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis which is situated just off of Scotland's Northwestern Shore. The Isle of Lewis is home to the highest population of full Scots-Gaelic speakers but nearly everyone in Stornoway is bi-lingual. Mac grew up only speaking Scots-Gaelic because her father refused to speak English (even though he knew it perfectly since grade school, much in the same case of Mac). But why she differs from Chibs is also that she lived in Scotland for the first nineteen years of her life and by that time the intricate annunciations and pronunciations had already settled deep into her tongue. The situation with Chibs is different, and that's why his accent is so much easier. When he moved from Glasgow to Belfast, somewhere around his early teens, his Scottish and Irish accent melded together and made him fairly easy to understand state side.

So, the confused look Jax gives MacLeod is not one that's new to her. Not even by a long shot.

"Why are you pissed?" She asks, this time slower and Jax understands perfectly fine this time – or must've because he turns away from her with a scowl unfairly directed at the long line of bikes up against the short concrete wall with the blue railing.

Mac rolls her eyes, doing a sour imitation of pout from safely outside of his peripheral vision. She takes another long swig and then thrusts it into Jax's arms – clearly indicating that she is not taking no for an answer this time.

"Why are you really here? All Chibs told us is that you're in some real bad trouble – why aren't The Saints helping you?" Jax asks bluntly, but without hostility. He takes a quick drink from the bottle and hands it back to her.

Mac swiftly takes another drink, hiccupping slightly afterwards while she speaks, "Well, what did the_ crabbit_ bastard tell you exactly?" _Crabbit_ comes from 'crabby' and generally means someone who is less than even-tempered.

She hands the bottle back.

"He said you pissed off the wrong Leprechaun back in Boston and that you needed to stay off the radar for a while."

Mac snorts a chuckle when she hears Jax use the word 'Leprechaun', because she could think of no better way to describe a pissed off Irishman. Jax takes a swig and doesn't hand the bottle back, letting it rest in his hands. Whether he keeps ownership to hold out on her until she talks or because he forgot, Mac doesn't really care. All that matters is objective one has been met: _Get Jax to drink._

"Aye, that's the pure basics of it. I'll tell you the rest, as a gesture of trust, Jax. I don't want any animosity while I'm here. But please know this, even if you hate me at the end of this, I told _you_ with trust." There's a heavy sincerity to her words that seems to ease the stiff tension on Jax's face.

Mac takes in a deep breath before she begins to tell her tale, "Our President was this man named Ace. Now, Ace is- was related to some very bad people – namely The Flanagan Family-" Jax's eyes widen slightly in recognition of the name tainted by blood, "I see you know them, lovely bunch huh? Anyway, I was next in line to be Vice President… _Can I get that fucking bottle?_" She stops, rather crudely demanding the liquor. Jax hands it over to her and she takes a guzzle before speaking again when the burning in her throat dies down, "So, right, I was next in line to be Vice President. Ace _apparently _didn't like that, not one wee bit. So he set me up. He had me go out and take care of some club business on my own and then he basically ambushed me and uhh…" She pauses because there's an awful taste in the back of her throat that needs to be drowned with whiskey, "Ace ambushed me and tried to shoot me, right between the eyes-" She taps the spot on her forehead for effect, "We fought and he was the one who wound up dead."

The bad taste is back so she takes another guzzle and doesn't stop until Jax takes the bottle out of her hands, wipes off the rim and takes his own sip. _Objective two has been met: Get Jax to get drunk._

"That's some fucked up shit, your own _President?_" He breathes through the burn with his blond brows furrowed all the way up.

"Aye, tell me about it." Mac sighs. She opens and closes her left fist, motioning for Jax to give her back the bottle. He is happy to oblige.

She takes only a short sip, cautious of the flush that is already creeping onto her alabaster cheeks. She didn't want to get blootered, she just wanted to drink enough to loosen the man up and get him to vent what he so desperately needed to, because Mac knows how to ready body language well and she knows that's all the SAMCRO VP needed.

"So, tit-for-tat, I told you about me, now it's your turn to tell me why you're all in a tizzy." She edges. The way his shoulders are slumped low suggests that he can sympathize with Atlas' struggle – Jax, too, feels the weight of the world.

And that's a feeling Mac knows. More importantly, it's a feeling that Mac absolutely loathes beyond words.

"I don't feel comfortable with you doing this." He says. _Ding. Ding. Ding. Final objective met: Get Jax to confess._

"Why? Because I'm a woman or because I'm an outsider?" She asks, reusing her question from earlier that Jax did not understand.

Jax shrugs, "A little bit of both." He says honestly. His complete truthfulness is something Mac rightfully respects with all her being.

"Well, what would I have to do to show you that you're completely wrong – that not only am I one tough bitch but that I can be trusted?" She asks, and it's a complete honesty that Jax rightfully respects.

He relaxes his posture slightly while he absent-mindedly scratches away at his scruffy goatee. Mac relaxes her posture to, but only conscious realizes she did so after the fact. _Go figure._

It's palpable that Jax is scheming, so Mac waits and then waits some more all the while watching Jax patiently out of the corner of her eye. She takes a slow drink from the whiskey bottle and lights up a cigarette. She loosens up the laces on her boots. She does all of this while Jax's light eyes stare out into the darkness that has taken Charming hostage for the night. It prompts Mac too look out at the horizon, as well. The haze is still off in the far distance but the stars seem a little brighter tonight. She can actually see part of the big dipper.

"Punch Tig so hard you knock out a tooth." He says so suddenly that Mac's heart thumps against her ribcage briefly.

"Seriously?" She asks dryly, somewhat in disbelief that he would chose something that she really wouldn't mind doing anyway.

"Hell yeah, seriously." Jax nods, a small smile easing up his rounded face.

"_Pssh_, I thought you said that shit doesn't fly here?" Mac quips, a coy smile on her own face. There's no hiding the fact that she _really_ likes his idea.

"It does if I endorse it." He says.

Mac shrugs, "The prince may have his way."

Jax' face falls a little because he is not fond of being called 'the prince', especially after finding out everything his father said was a lie.

"The prince thing, who'd you hear that from?" He asks.

"Tig, why?" She responds, not understanding where this line of question is leading.

"Knock out _two_ teeth." He holds up two fingers to visualize his emphatic point.

Mac's smile stretches wide, "You have yourself a deal." She reaches out her hand to shake on it, which Jax does, and then the two rise from the picnic bench and go inside the clubhouse.

When they enter through the front door side-by-side they might have well as been fucking as they walked, because that's how Clay and Tig looked at the blonde duo from the pool tables as Mac and Jax came stumbling in. Jax holds a now only half-full bottle of whiskey in his hand, and the amber liquid sloshes around with every step he takes.

Mac and Jax walk over to where Clay and Tig play pool together.

"I'm going to do this, but in proving myself to you I don't want to make _them_ distrust me." Mac whispers to Jax.

"Don't worry about it. Everyone in here knows Tig deserves what's coming to him." Jax smirks, hinting that Mac's hunch was right. Tig and Jax do not get along, and its apparently over something that all the Sons are aware of, and whatever that may be it's fine with Mac. She gets a free pass to hit Tig as hard as she can and that's all she cares about.

Besides, it serves Tig right. Mac told him to nut up or shut up, or more specifically "strap on a set or stop staring at my tits", and quite a few times after that threat she has caught the SAMCRO Sgt.-At-Arms with his baby blues aimed directly at her chest.

In other words, she's damned excited to be doing this.

"Aww, is the wittle pwince feewing bettah?" Tig mockingly pouts as they approach.

Grinning like a fool Jax replies, "Definitely. Hey, Clay, can I talk to you for a moment?" Jax says. Clay nods and goes off with his step-son who wraps an arm around the older gentlemen's shoulders and pulls him away, while Mac walks around the pool table so she's face-to-face with the man named Tig that's only slightly taller than she.

"I'm not sorry about this." She says and there's a quick flash of confusion across Tig's face that crinkles up his nose that has obviously been broken one too many times to be straight.

Mac's left arm recoils back, her scarred hand forming a tight fist. She's not as strong with her left but hopefully she's still strong enough to meet her ultimatum.

Tig sees what's coming just a little too late to duck.

Her left fist connects against the right side of his face with such force and initiative that he falls right down as if he were a sack of bricks.

Punch. Down.

It happens so fast that a lot of people must've missed it, because there's none of the sudden silence that followed after she decked Happy.

Tig isn't moving.

Mac prods him lightly in the chest with the toe of her boot. He doesn't move. He doesn't even grunt. He just _lays _there, his arms sprawled out around him and his legs entertwined with themselves. She didn't _mean_ to knock him out, but that doesn't necessarily mean she's upset that she did.

"I think I knocked him out. Is that good enough?" She calls, craning her neck over her shoulder to look at Jax – who bears a striking resemblance to a small child on Christmas morning who woke up to find the mountain bike he's been drooling over for six months waiting for him under the tree.

He grin widens more, if that's even possible at this point because the blond man is already smiling from ear-to-ear, and he flashes Mac a thumbs up sign.

"That is _definitely_ good enough." He hoots.

Now that Mac has called out her triumph the bar noise halts as people gather looks of their Sargeant-At-Arms, now reduced to a puddle of a man wearing a cut. There are no faint calls of 'ooh' or 'aww' for the fallen Son. There is no one upset that Mac just knocked him out. No, the only noise that graces Mac's ears is the shared laughter of just about everyone in the bar. Apparently, _a lot_ of people thought he deserved a good punch. Tig likes to think himself as being up on a high, untouchable pedestal and Mac has just completely yanked him back down to ground level. Perhaps she even brought him down to subterranean level because no matter how bruised his cheek is going to be in the morning, his ego is going to be a million times more bruised. And that is a very, _very_ good thing, especially in the eyes of his fellow Sons. Don't get the Sons wrong, they care about Tig and everything, but the sick bastard got what he deserved and there's no argueing that.

Mac shakes her fist out. Even _her_ hand hurts after delivering that TKO. There's no doubt in Mac's mind that Tig's cheek is going to be downright blurple in the morning. His ego? Mac's suspecting it will be bruised a slightly darker shade of black than she knows the name for.

"Shit, now I'm gonna have to strip his patch after being knocked out by a chick!" Even Clay laughs as he shouts across the distance to Mac.

Mac feels very proud of herself as well as overly satisfied to the point where she craves a cigarette – much like she does after the calming release of sex. She lights up a Camel unfiltered as she steps over Tig's limp body, not really caring that her boot clad foot "accidentally" connects with his stomach as she does so, and then retakes her position by Jax.

"Dude, that was fuckin' sweet." Jax smiles. He hands her the whiskey bottle he has been holding onto and she takes a well-deserved drink.

"Thank you, thank you very much." Mac says with a small, but dramatic bow before the clubhouse occupants.

Bobby, who stands just slightly off to the side with Kozik and Happy as they smoke a joint, turns to Mac, "That's my line!" He calls. The laughter booms again. Mac's cheeks are starting to burn from smiling and laughing too much, and that is something that she rarely experiences.

Mac physically feels it right then, almost as if someone had literally come up and patted her on the back – wait…

Jax reaches out and gives the blonde woman a light pat on the back for a job well done. It's a simple gesture but it means the world to the Hellhound who is on the run from hellhounds.

She just got _in._ Not the type of 'in' that's literally tied to the definition but the type of _in_ that is earned among rowdy crowds such as this solely through respect.

There's no high in the world that could even scratch at the surface of how truly happy Mac is in this moment.

There's a loud commotion by the pool tables as Tig starts to wake up. His arms fly up and grip tight onto the lip of the pool table as he hoists himself up. He looks discombobulated as he gingerly holds onto his face and shakily stands.

He blinks his blues rapidly, now looking more than confused and askew that he ever has before as he takes stock of his surroundings. He moves his jaw around in an attempt to clear away some of the stiffness in his face but he only winds up hurting himself more.

"Did I fucking get hit by a Mac Truck or something and you stupid fuckers just dragged me back here? It _feels_ like I got hit by a fucking truck!" Tig exclaims with disbelief. He has no recollection of Mac and Jax even walking through the door. The last thing he remembers is calling 'three in the corner pocket', and then he was waking up on the ground with a horrible, throbbing pain enveloping the entire right side of his face.

"Or something." Jax and Mac say in stereo.

* * *

><p>Saint Amelia: The Patron Saint of Bruises (I know they're starting to get cheesy and lame, but there's only so many things someone can be a patron saint of! lol)<p>

**Epitath (Final Words): **For those of you who may not know, a Mac Truck is a brand of truck that attaches to a shipping container to make it an "eighteen-wheeler". Basically a Mac is a cargo truck cab that is a _beast. _And no, I did not do that on purpose when I started writing this story, lol but I'm glad I did! :) Oh, also, SAMBOS is what I'm assuming the acronym is for the chapter of SoA out in Massachusettes - the one that they've only ever dropped the faintest of hints at. I'm assuming the chapter is in Boston, because there's nothing else in Mass, so if this turns out wrong, just let me know.

Please review. It always means a lot to me when you guys do, because it lets me know that this story is still worth posting. As always, every review is welcomed no matter how breif or how constructively critical.

**Also,** now this is something that I truly want your opinion for because I'm not going to write it if no one wants it – I have _soooo_ many "origin" moments between Chibs and Mac floating around in my head that when this is completed I wanted to do something of a prequel that chronicles how Chibs and Mac got to the point they are in Hellhound on my Trail. So please, please, please, let me know what you guys think – about everything: The story (IE; Did you buy it?) and whether or not you would read a prequel.

Good night and Good luck ;)


	10. Saint Raphael the Archangel

**_A/N:_** So here is where I'd _like_ to put a good excuse for why I'm late in updating, and I think this says it all: College kids are effing crazy when school lets out for the summer. :D. So, here's chapter ten.

As always, enjoy :)

Chapter 10: Saint Raphael the Archangel

* * *

><p>When the clock strikes midnight most people have filtered out of the club. Surrounded by nothing but soft songs from the jukebox and empty tables, Happy and Mac sit together in the corner with a bottle of 120-proof bourbon between them. With only a few sips of the liquid that is more accelerant than drinkable alcohol, paired with the whiskey she shared earlier with Jax, Mac's cheeks glow a bright pink. Her feet are up on the table with her ankles crossed as she leans the chair back onto two legs and chews on her numb lower lip. Happy sits low in his chair, his pelvis on the edge of the seat and his legs spread out in front of him. He lazily swirls the bourbon around the bottom of his glass in between his casual nips.<p>

Mac takes a sip from her glass and channels her attention on the person slouched in his chair across from her. Considering the man with the shaved head has testified for her in front of his whole club it has prompted Mac to want to learn more about the Unholy One, but so far her attempts to strike conversation have been fruitless. He answers with one-syllable grunts, half of which Mac can't even understand.

Happy's title of Unholy One, hidden from direct eyesight down on the lower right side of his vest is not nearly as cryptic as the Sons probably like to think it is. With one look Mac knew what Happy's patch stood for: someone who has committed the most gratuitous acts of violence in the name of the club.

Knowing that their ranks are fairly similar she feels an instantaneous connection with the dark man. While many outlaws may know what it is like to take a life, few know what it means to be able to take a life without batting an eyelash. While some may have their hands stained with blood, both Happy and Mac know what it means to be drenched by it, and that is a bond that can either make a relationship tough as steel or as cool as ice.

"So, Happy, when you're not taking care of club business what do you do?" She inquires, breaking the comfortable silence they have so easily settled into since her last attempt to spark conversation.

Happy shrugs, "Stuff."

"That isn't an answer." Mac says, taking another slow sip of the strong bourbon.

"I like to tattoo." He offers. His comment catches Mac's fancy; she brings her legs down and leans into the table with her elbows.

"Think you could do something for me?"

Happy pauses mid-sip and looks up at the wavy haired woman. With a quirked eyebrow he silently asks her what she means.

"I need some stuff added to a tattoo – three crows on my ribcage." Mac says.

Happy doesn't press her for more information. All he hears his 'ribcage', which means she'll be shirtless, and he agrees.

* * *

><p>Happy sets up his equipment on top of the intricately carved redwood table that resides in the Chapel. Mac has already stripped off her t-shirt and taken to a laying down position just beside the reaper. The artwork that stretches from just under her bra strap and disappears beneath the waist band of her loose-fitting jeans is of a very detailed oak tree with winter barren branches that stretch out like dendrites. Flocked within the branches is a large gathering of crows. To be precise, nineteen little black birds take perch in the tree.<p>

It's a tattoo that Mac rarely shows and has never told anyone the direct meaning of, but Happy understands what the ink represents the instant he sees it. It's a fairly clever play on words by Mac that is only slightly less than obvious to the Unholy One. But, then again, he's someone who has his own collection of similarly themed smiley faces tattooed by his hip. Most people are completely blind to the metaphor of her tattoo. For even if a normal person were to associate a flock of crows with the correct name, a murder, it's highly unlikely that the person's next thought would be that the murder stands for those she's murdered.

"So," Happy says while pouring black ink into small caps, "Three crows, right?"

"Aye."

The doors to the chapel are wide open as she lies on their precious table in nothing other than the grassy green bra that perfectly cups her breasts and jeans that slump loose around her hip bones, giving room for top of her white boy shorts to peak out. Being topless nearly the entirety of her tattoo collection is exposed, and the artwork is beautiful to say the least. The colourful sleeves start where the spider webs over each of her shoulders end and extend all the way down onto the backs of her hands. The images on her arms form one cohesive, slightly macabre tattoo, chained together by the words scrawled across her collarbones. The largest tattoo on her arms is the Scottish flag over her left bicep directly above the MacLeod clan crest. The crest is composed of a raging bull circled by a thick belt, with her clan's motto of _Hold Fast_ engraved within. Those two simple words are something that Mac considers the motto for her life, not just her lineage. _Hold fast_ means to always stand your ground and fight for what you believe in, never letting yourself waiver. Her heritage is the one thing she's grateful that her father gave her because to Mac, it means something. Not just the idea of knowing where you come from, but the words _hold fast _themselves. When she was a girl she used to constantly tell herself to hold fast whenever she was being used as a living punching bag. She let the phrase fill her up and give her the strength to become who she is.

None of her other tattoos come close to holding the meaning of her crest. All the others, the decorative candy skulls on her right forearm or the revolver that shoots a rose on the inside of her right bicep – not even the tag of affiliation on her neck can compare.

Mac looks out into the clubhouse that is now nearly deserted. Even the members that call the clubhouse their home have retired for the night. Only three very grim souls are left lurking about the living area, huddled around a table and talking in hushed tones. Clay, Jax and Tig all have rather stern expressions on their faces, but Tig is by far the darkest of them all. He sulks, sitting low in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. Ever since he regained the memory of Mac hitting him he has done nothing but glare at her with ominous blue eyes, making it clear that he is not going to let her act go unpunished.

But Mac is okay with that. She's fought bigger and stronger men then he and though she has not always come out victorious when outweighed, her opponent has never escaped unscathed.

"_Bring it."_ Mac mouths to Tig, who looks over Clay's shoulder so his glare penetrates into the chapel. He turns his head away, giving Mac a view of curly black hair as he takes a hasty gulp of his drink.

Happy catches this interaction out of the corner of his eye.

"Watch your ear." He comments, leaning in so that his whisper can be heard.

"My _ear?"_

"Tig has this thing… He likes to bite off ears." Happy says with a shrug that he hopes conveys he is not entirely sure _why_ Tig bites off peoples ears.

"I'd like to see him try." Mac says with full confidence. Cockiness and confidence are only wire-thinly separated and though Mac sometimes straddles the fence between the two, it is wrong to mistake her as cocky. She is so overly-confident because she has every right to be so.

And the latest demonstration of her physical prowess, knocking Tig out with one punch, has Happy thinking he'll bet the money on Mac if her and Tig ever enter the ring.

"You should probably take your bra off, too." Happy muses, trying to be indifferent about his suggestion as he pulls on a pair of black latex gloves.

"Nice try. It stays on." Mac smirks, not falling for his trick. The bare tips of the branches extended under the band of her bra and there's absolutely no reason for her to take it off.

Happy gives a shrug that is supposed to represent apathy but it's a little too rushed to be anything other than disappointment.

Mac sits up quickly to finish off the last of her drink and light up a cigarette before she lies back down. There is zero doubt that the additions to her murder are going to hurt. But, in a way, Mac is going to welcome it because it soothes her. The humming of the tattooist's needle is something of a lullaby for Mac. And the pain? Well, that's just kind of a bonus because pain is the one thing that completely erases everything from Mac's mind. As sadistic as it may be, Mac finds comfort in pain because when there's pain, there's only pain. Physical pain Mac can handle. Emotional pain, the type of utter agony that comes from losing everyone you've ever cared about, Mac can't handle.

So she opts for pain in moments like this. Whether it be purposefully self-inflicted, accidentally self-inflicted, or the pain from a tattoo – Mac prefers any kind of physical ache to the phantom pain inside of her that she can't seem to shake to matter how hard she tries.

Happy motions for Mac to lie back down, so she does. She stretches her abdomen as far out as it will go so Happy will hopefully not have to stretch her skin with his thumb and forefinger. All Mac wants is the needle, not extended touching.

"Move." Happy commands, tapping her left arm lightly with the back of his hand. Mac does as she's told and lifts her arm up so Happy can have full access to her flesh.

"Where do you want 'em?" He asks.

"You're the artist. Just put them wherever feels right." Mac says.

The hum of the needles starts up and it's time for bliss.

As the needles pierce her flesh everything is washed away as the nerves over her ribs protest the ink's intrusion. Mac embraces the pain and lets it fill her up to the brim...

* * *

><p>The needle removes from her skin and now there's only the dulled burning of after pain that mirrors the dulled ache from her knuckles. She's been taking Percocet to keep the pain in her hand from being unbearble, and it's rather clear that is going to have to stop if she ever wants to forget about Sarah for more than five minutes.<p>

"Don't get up." Happy barks. He rips some paper towels off of the roll he gathered while digging out some ointment from his kit.

"Naw, don't worry about it." Mac waves his actions off as she sits up.

Happy doesn't say anything, he barely lifts his eyes from his kit as he grips her by the shoulder and pushes her back down onto the table. Apparently, he's going to do what he intends no matter what Mac says.

But Mac is okay with that. It's easier to say yes than it is to start another fight over something she really has no right to be angry about, like she knows she does.

"You're the first person who hasn't asked me about the piece." Mac comments as Happy first wipes the freshly inked skin with a damp paper towel. He doesn't say anything because there isn't anything to respond to, the comment was merely a truthful observation.

"Do you get it?" Mac lifts up her head to be able to see Happy. There's a crooked, sly smirk on her lips that comes from being wrapped up in one too many highs at the current moment.

Happy and Mac lock eyes for just a moment or two before he begins to lather the soothing ointment over her side. _He gets it._

"You've got more than me." He says with just a hint of bemusement in the undertones of his otherwise gravelly voice.

Outlaws are a people accustomed to talking cryptically so perhaps that is why outlaws are so apt to read between the lines. In those two simple sentences a whole conversation was held between the blonde and her tattooist.

And Mac likes that. She likes having to read between the lines because it leaves room for interpretation.

Only when the ointment has been administered and the clear wrap taped down does Happy allow Mac to sit up and check out his work.

Mac takes off for the bathroom, hub to the only public mirror within the SoA clubhouse. Happy follows behind her, catching the back drift of Tig's homicidal gaze as he passes by. Happy shoots him a threatening glare from over his shoulder just to let his Sergeant-At-Arms know he doesn't support how Tig has been acting. Considering that it was Tig who laughed when Happy got punched by Mac, the Unholy One has absolutely no sympathy for Tig's sulking.

Mac stretches up to see the tattoo in the mirror, leaning forward on her tip-toes so that the three newest editions to her nine-year-old piece of artwork are visible. Among the nineteen black crows that huddle in the branches, three news ones with swollen edges fly out.

"You made them fly." Mac says with neither disgust nor happiness in her deep accented voice, much as if she had said the grass is green and the sky is blue.

"It felt like the way to go." Happy says.

She likes that he made them fly, because he unconsciously just added a whole new level of symbolism to her tattoo. The three murders that surround Mac having to flee from Boston are represented by fleeing crows.

It's almost like Happy is psychic.

"You know around here crows mean you're someone's old lady." He leans against the door frame, one foot bent back behind the other as he ignites a cigarette inside his cupped hands. Even though there's no wind in the clubhouse, it's a habit of Happy's to guard the flame of his lighter - a habit that he isn't consciously aware he has.

"I must be a black widow then, huh?" Mac quips with a light laugh.

"That's not a funny joke. You ever kill one of my brothers, and _I'll_ be gettin' a new tattoo." Happy says, though a small smile betrays him.

* * *

><p>The night drags on, painfully slow. When the pale blue of twilight creeps up on the skyline Mac is the only one left awake within the compound. Hours ago everyone had taken off for favor of home or their perspective dormitories inside the clubhouse. Chibs has yet to come back from his ride but that fact barely brings out the pessimism within Mac. The longer he's gone, the longer he rides and the longer he rides the clearer his head will end up being. So, as far as she's concerned, Chibs can stay out all night if that's what it takes for him to see the situation with the same pair of emotionally detached eyes as his brothers. Mac is simply the easiest and best option to get to The Russian Kings. For once it is a perk to be a woman in the ultimate boys club, because Mac has not only the strength to handle herself in case shit hits the proverbial fan but she has the right anatomy to be the last thing The Russians see coming. She can go incognito and slink about their club without setting off any radars.<p>

Mac lays stretched out on the top of the picnic table with her knees bent over the edge as she watches a large flock of birds rise up from the towering tree tops and fly over the clubhouse. She can't sleep tonight, not that she ever truly tried. Mac knows rest on a night such as this isn't a possibility. The atmosphere in the SoA compound is too tense, almost to the point where it's suffocating. Everyone is itching for action and it has charged the air in an oppressive manner. It is similar to how the air feels just before a lightning strike.

Even now, though Mac has completely relaxed into the stiff wood of the picnic table like melting butter, her nerves twitch with anticipation. She takes slow inhales off the joint squished between her lips but it does nothing to calm her inner core.

The Sons of Anarchy are taking the situation of the Russian invasion with osmium weight; they are reacting as if Alexandria's death is a personal attack against them. Mac understands the severity with which the Sons are reacting. When someone comes in and takes a shit on your carpet, you deal with it seriously - that's just the way it is. Besides, The Saints claim to fame is that above all else they look out for the residents of Southie who no one else cares about. Mac has spent many a night chasing down some douchebag who dared to take a shit on The Saints' carpet. Hunting down muppets who insult The Saints by messing with Southie is one of her favourite past-times, ranked somewhere right under fighting and above drinking. Though she knows she lives for the thrill of a hunt, Mac had wrongly assumed that being removed from the situation she would not feel the anxiety of insult and the pure _need_ to snuff the Russians. But she feels it deep within her.

Nothing sets Mac off like men who get their kicks from raping and beating women. It is the one thing aside from pure bullshit that Mac has no tolerance for.

Even though The Russians will never know it, the second that Mac became involved was the very second that their deaths became a simple inevitability. She is determined to turn her scouting mission planned for tomorrow into a way to drag them into the outlaw version of court – where fines are paid with blood and sentences are served in shallow graves.

Lucky for the Sons, it's a dangerous thing when Mac is determined. The indomitable woman is relentless to say the least. Her determination means that she will make sure that the Russians are wiped clear from the face of the earth. Even if she has to hunt them down like the vermin they are and pick them off one by one, they _will_ pay in blood and graves.

Mac takes the last hit from her joint and snuffs it against the table then sits up – a slight head rush making her momentarily dizzy. Her eyes scan the parking lot, searching for her beige Honda among the sporadically parked motorcycles. She finds it quickly and an eyebrow raises high up her forehead with mischievous intent.

Muttering under her breath about needing to shoot the ever loving shit out of something, Mac unlocks her trunk and digs her favourite .9mm Baby Eagle out from the secret compartment hidden underneath the spare tire.

* * *

><p>Mac stands posture perfect two hundred yards away from a row of empty glass beer bottles. Her left leg is in front of her right, weight equally distributed as her left arm is extended in front of her. Her right arm, essentially rendered useless for this purpose hangs limp by her side as she stares down the extended barrel of the silencer with both eyes open. Her emeralds are focused on the first beer bottle in a long succession that lines the concrete wall on the opposite side of the SoA courtyard. It's an old Budweiser with blood caked to the bottom – Happy's from the other day. Silently singing along to <em>Johnny, I hardly knew 'ya<em> she looks up from the sights just long enough to double check her aim.

"Right in the middle o' the crown." She whispers to herself, calling her shot before taking it. She resumes singing along to _Johnny, I hardly knew 'ya _and squeezes the trigger after completing the first line of 'hurroo's'.

The noise of a bullet that passes through a silencer is more a rush of air then a boom, but the noise of the beer bottle exploding into nothing but dust and shards is a loud enough pop to make her flinch back – eyes darting about just to make sure she didn't wake anyone up.

Mac doubts any of the SAMCRO members would take kindly to her transforming their parking lot into a firing range.

But no lights flicker on, no one comes running out to inspect the loud pop. The sound has thankfully passed unnoticed.

She smirks, perhaps a bit cocky with herself, and lines up her next shot. She fires off the rest of the fifteen round clip into her glass targets, pausing only long enough to let the kick back from the powerful gun shiver up her arm. When she's done, the only visible sign left of the beer bottles existance is a fine powder that covers the ground. Directly under one of the tall artificial lights the glass dust sparkles bright, refracting the light spectrum and producing dozen of tiny rainbows that dance off the buildings surrounding the courtyard.

Mac laughs to herself, feeling a bit like a child filled with wonder during the first snowfall of the winter as she watches the colourful rainbows shimmer all about.

Shooting things always makes Mac feel better, calmer, and this time is no different. Her finger tips tingle and there's a very slight burning sensation left in her arm from the sheer power her Baby Eagle contains but her mind is peacefully silent.

From behind her MacLeod hears lethargic applause and turns quickly on her heel to face Happy. Unbeknown to Mac, Happy has been watching her since her first shot. He too has decided to forgo sleeping – but not for the lack of trying. He was lying pitifully awake in his dormitory bed for hours before he heard the familiar sound of bottles being shot.

Trying to be cool about the situation, Mac puts the gun down on the picnic table and leans her weight onto one hip, scratching lightly at the back of her head. She stares down at the dark pavement between her black boots while she tries to create an excuse to explain why she just opened fire in a place that is clearly a no-weapons zone.

"You're not in trouble." Happy says with a fair amount of enjoyment over her obvious fear of getting bagged. Mac relaxes into her stance, returning to her post-shooting calm knowing that Happy is not here to give her grief.

"You wanna take a shot, then? There's enough empties to do this for five years." Mac jokes, thumbing to the pile by the door. More boxes of discarded brown bottles are lined up next to the door, waiting to be used in Mac's recycling program.

Happy shakes his head. The only valid reason he had for coming out was to tell Mac to stop shooting. But when he was actually up close to Mac he could see the unbreakable focus she had and decided it was best to wait until she was out of ammunition. Happy has lived long enough to know when someone _needs_ to shoot something for the pure release of it.

"You better hide that shit and pick up your mess. Clay would be pissed if he found out you did this." Happy warns, rolling one of Mac's spent .9mm shell casings under his boot. Mac shrugs, only looking slightly disappointed that Happy is here to put the brakes on her fun. She quickly ignites a cigarette before picking the broom and dustpan off the ground to clean up the shattered glass.

Happy inspects Mac's piece while she cleans. It's a nice gun, heavy, a little large for concealed carry but he doubts that Mac cares – there's a very slight rounding around the muzzle indicating that the Baby Eagle has spent a lot of time in a holster. The smooth black .9mm hand gun is definitely not your everyday pistol and definitely not the type of gun meant to be used once and then tossed. But just like he expected, the serial numbers are already filed away. Just in case.

Coming in from the North on the main road, the rumbling of a motorcycle engine can be heard approaching. The tall gates open up and Chibs comes rolling into the parking lot.

Mac watches him arrive intently, literally holding her breath to see if Chibs' extended ride has served its purpose.

He slowly rolls to a stop and dismounts his bike, placing his helmet on the seat. His brown eyes linger on Happy for a moment just long enough to make it clear that Happy's presence is not welcomed. Happy takes the hint and leaves, silently ducking back into the clubhouse.

Chibs walks slowly over to Mac; He doesn't bother questioning about the sparkling dust she sweeps into a pile while pretending not to care about his entrance.

It's visible to Mac that Chibs is more relaxed than he was when he stormed out, but it's also evident something is still bothering him. When he stands in front of Mac the first thing she notices is that the large silver cross is not hanging around his neck and that worries her only briefly. She knows from experience that when he takes off that particular precious piece of jewelry, it's a sign of trouble. However, the softness of Chibs' face overrides the subtle warning signs of danger.

"What are you doin', you muppet?" He asks softly, the usually derogatory term of 'muppet' turned into a term of endearment.

"I'm cleaning." Mac says slowly, gesturing to the glittering mess all around her with the broom handle.

"No, not that," Chibs shakes his head, "I meant with… everything - what's goin' on in that head of yours?"

Still unsure of just what Chibs is asking, Mac responds cautiously, "I want to help your club."

Chibs runs a hand through his hair, but stops halfway through the motion and stuffs his hands under his arms to avoid any more nervous ticks.

"I'm not talking about that… Mac, I can see that you're all twisted up inside," He pokes her bare upper arm lightly, "You were just like this before that mess back in Belfast – actin' like you got a death wish. You know I don't want to, but I'll tell Clay all about it if you're going into this without a clear head." He speaks gently so as not to ruffle Mac's feathers and it seems to work. She leans the broom against the wall, but just lets the dustpan fall out of her grasp and crash to the ground.

Mac sighs, rubbing a hand over her pale face to smooth away her irritation, "Belfast was a very different time, Chibs."

"Oh, was it now?" His snide comment lingers in the air along with the slowly fading smell of gunpowder. His words penetrate deep into Mac's conscious and for a second she thinks about slapping him but all her hostility vanishes when she catches how genuinely obvious it is that _this –_ That _Mac_ is what's bothering Chibs.

"My head is plenty clear. You should worry less, Chibs. You're already ugly enough as it is without wrinkles." Mac says lightly, hoping that it will be enough to end this conversation. But Chibs keeps his eyes trained on her movements in the same way he watches an opponent before a fight. He makes it blatant that he is going to speak his peace or his earlier threat to tie her up could come back into play.

Mac leans against the exterior wall then slides down so she's sitting on asphalt with her back flush against the cool concrete.

"Look, they already voted and I'm going in tomorrow no matter what you have to say." Mac breathes. She digs a cigarette out of her pocket and lights it up while Chibs joins her on the ground.

He had been expecting for the club to do something like that. The realization came to him quick that Mac was a good way to get to The Russian Kings. The realization that directly followed that is what made his ride stretch until dawn.

Mac is not okay. No matter what anyone else says, no matter how "okay" she looks, it is perfectly clear to Chibs that his friend is hurting. The instant he saw her, Chibs knew that she was panicked, but he too easily attributed her unease to everything surrounding Ace's death. He forgot that Mac doesn't get panicked, at least not over something as tangible as that. Mac gets panicked for far deeper reasons. The only thing that scares her enough to actually make her panic is an inability to get a reign on her own emotions.

He noticed she was panicked and on-edge back in Belfast before she volunteered to go solo on a dangerous mission. She barely escaped that night with her life, and she only lived because Jimmy had followed her and then showed up on Chibs' doorstep with Mac unconscious and bleeding profusely from the shrapnel imbedded in her back.

Chibs saved her life that night.

Barely.

He wasn't nearly as close with her then as he is now, but even back then he knew that he should've said something about what he'd seen in her telling green eyes.

Chibs easily knows the subtle difference between someone being brave and someone wanting to be killed in the cross-fire. Back in Belfast he knew Mac was going out to get herself hurt but kept quiet because it was not his place to question her.

But now…. Well, now Chibs is the only one left who has any concern over her safety and there's no way he's going to keep quiet.

Chibs makes a special point of looking Mac in the eyes so she understands how heartfelt he is, "Tig and I will go with you tomorrow. We'll stay back as far as we can, but you call me if they even start sniffin' that you're with the Saints or the Sons of Anarchy. If _anything_ goes wrong, promise me that you'll get out of there...Promise that you aren't doing this to…" He can't bring himself to finish his sentence and actually say that her intentions are suicidal. Thinking it is one thing, but to actually say that Mac, _his _Mac, wants to die… that's not something he's not willing to let himself say.

"There's only one problem with that."

"What's that?" Chibs asks, exacerbated at the thought of another argument.

"I hit Tig."

"Mary, mother of Christ, why did you –" Chibs snaps his mouth shut and takes in a deep, calming breath so as not to lose sight of his target, "Do you promise or not?"

"Aye. I promise." She nods to reinforce the sincerity of her words.

"Good." Chibs grunts. He stretches his arm out around her broad shoulders and pulls her into his chest. Surprisingly, Mac nestles into the leather covering the crook of his shoulder and wraps one of her arms over his abdomen. Chibs rests his chin atop her head and breathes in deep, catching her scent of lavender and tobacco.

He can't help but smile and nor can Mac as she scoots in closer.

Neither of them notice that they're both smiling. But that's okay, because it's good to leave some things open to interpretation.

* * *

><p>Chibs helps her clean up the rest of her mess and chuck the boxes full of empties into the dumpster. By the time they're done the sun has fully risen and a thin layer of sweat has formed on Mac's brow as the temperature rises.<p>

"California is the devils arse crack." She mumbles, complaining about the heat, as she wipes her brow with the back of her arm.

"Oh, dry your eyes." Chibs comments. His statement is the Scottish equivalent of the snide American saying 'want some cheese with that wine?', and is cheeky enough to inspire Mac's urge to flip him off – an urge she quickly gives into.

As Chibs plops down on the picnic bench Mac again notices the lack of silver around his neck. Chibs' cross is an old family heirloom that he rarely takes off. Without it on he looks askew in a curious way. Almost as if he isn't whole.

"Where's your cross?" Mac asks, pointing a finger at Chibs' chest where it normally resides. Chibs stares at her with his brown eyes for a long time that almost makes Mac uncomfortable, but just before Mac is ready to leave he fishes deep into the front pocket of his black jeans. He pulls out the antique piece of jewelry and stares down at it in his hands, almost longingly, for a few seconds. Then, he stands up and without warning he places the long chain over her head. The cross falls down her torso and the heavy pendant hangs just above her waist, much in the same spot it dangles when around Chibs' neck. Mac takes the warm piece of metal in her fingers and inspects it under the growing sunlight. Silver is the most reflective metal of all, but this silver cross antiqued; its luster dulled from time and loving.

She looks up at Chibs with a upwardly furrowed brow, waiting for an explanation.

"That has kept people in my family safe for a hundred years. You can give it back to me when all this shit blows over." His warm eyes linger on her in such a way that magnifies the deep importance behind his gift. Mac can easily understand the meaning behind Chibs giving her his treasured possession.

He wants to make sure that Mac is protected by him, even when he isn't physically there to do so.

And as much as Mac wants to tease Chibs for being an emotional sap, she is wholly honoured by his gesture. So honoured is she that it renders her stunned to silence.

That perhaps speaks the most, more than any words of gratitude ever could.

* * *

><p>Saint Raphael the Archangel - The Patron Saint of Gaurdian Angels and Happy Occurances.<p>

_Johnny I hardly Knew 'Ya _is a song by the Dropkick Murphys and was actually featured in the SoA episode where Clay and Tig go to the bar to meet Cameron for the first time - it's the song that plays during the shoot out.

I welcome any constructive criticism of my work, and even ask for it. I won't know I'm doing something wrong until someone tells me. So please, please, pretty please with a cherry on top, _please_ review - even if all you have to say is two words long, every review means something to me.


	11. Saint Andrew the Apostle

**I have posted a one-shot prequel that ties into this story titled **_**Hell Is Where We've Been.**_ It is a dark story that surrounds how Chibs got his scars, it is not necessary to read _Hell is Where We've Been_ to understand much in this chapter or any other chapter. I mentioned earlier I wanted to do a prequel, and that is sort-of a teaser to that.

_**A/N**_**: **This is a "baby" chapter – it's small, mostly just meant to fill up some space because coming up next we have a lot of stuff going on and it will be at least a week until the next upload. Also, I am posting just after the 8,000 one shot I posted, and a lot of my creativity is in ill supply as of current but I have worked the chapter to where I think it's passable, so I hope it works. :)

I also want to say that this story gets about 300 hits every time I upload a new chapter. So on average I'm getting one review per 150 people who read.

Those are disappointing statistics, people. Frowny-face.

But a huge, big thank you to those of you who loyally review – and those of you who reviewed _Hell Is Where We've Been_.

As always, enjoy : )

Chapter 11: Saint Andrew the Apostle

* * *

><p>Mac sings in the shower.<p>

For as long as Chibs has known her, he has never known that.

But as he sits on the edge of his large king sized bed with dark red sheets he listens to her sing. It's some old Scottish folk song, sung in Scots-Gaelic. Chibs can't remember the name of the song, but he can remember his mother singing it to him as a child. Mac's singing voice surprises Chibs. Her speaking voice is deep and rich, with the accent like his that reminds him of home but her singing voice is so….

Powerful.

In another life she could've been an opera singer.

With the dormitories in the clubhouse all having respective owners she will be bunking with him. Considering last night did not exactly go as planned they avoided the awkward sleeping situation it would create. Neither of them are youthful enough to obtain any actual rest sleeping on a floor, and Chibs knows from experience that the couches in the clubhouse are worse to sleep on than a floor.

The idea of sharing a bed with her makes Chibs nervous and excited all at the same time. He doesn't know if he could control himself being that close to her in such a manner. Lying in bed, smelling tobacco and lavender on the pillow next to his….

Chibs is just a human man, far from infallible.

He pats down his body, trying to find his pack of cigarettes. He finds the Marlboro hard pack in the breast pocket of his cut but when he pulls it out, it is sadly empty. Frowning, Chibs gets up and goes about his room – picking up every single pack that litters any solid surface in his dorm room.

Chibs has never been one for cleaning, and when Mac first walked into his dorm she said that it looked like the Marlboro man threw up in his room.

And right she is.

But there is not one god damned cigarette in any of the red and white packs scattered about.

Knowing Mac always buys by the carton he goes to her large nylon black duffle bag and rummages through her sloppily packed belongings.

Stuffed down at the bottom of the bag he feels the long cardboard rectangle of her Camel Unfiltered carton. He shakes out a new pack and lights one up with hast as Mac's singing stops – cutting off in the middle of the song along with the sound of rushing water.

Mac comes out almost instantly after, followed by a puff of steam.

Chibs looks up and gawks like a deer caught in the headlights as he takes her all in.

Her wet long hair is such a dark blonde that it borders on brown. The waves are gone, and her thick hair cascades stick-straight over her spider-web decorated shoulders and down her chest – barely covered by the too-small white towel wrapped around her pale body.

He never realized just _how _long her hair is before. She normally keeps it up in a pony-tail or a hastily wrapped bun. The tips brush against her straightened elbows.

Her face is freshly-washed and free of make-up, she radiates.

Chibs never understood why women wear make-up; he's always found them most beautiful in moments like this.

One of her knees is bent inward as she pops out one hip and her shoulders are slouched over slightly, her eyes gazing out the window. The bright morning sun beams in from the small window she is directly in front of and the light plays off the small bits of ink-free skin exposed on her arms – but her tattoos draw in the light and they are much more vivid than he remembers; the bright colours of the flowers in the eyes of the candy skulls pop.

Her legs stretch out from under the hem of the white towel that barely covers her groin and seem to extend forever. Her pale skin there is barren from ink save for the rosary tattooed around her left foot.

His eyes instantly draw to her thighs where he briefly fears there will be jagged cuts, but there aren't. Her thighs are nearly covered with shiney, white scar tissue though. Before you could tell the scars were from cuts, but now... It almost looks like her skin was sliced off, one centimeter at a time. It's a painful reminder that tightens Chibs chest with grief. The fact that Mac uses pain as a coping mechanism laid dormant in the back of his mind for a long while. He's never forgotten but he has let it slide away, and for many reasons. Her scars serve as a reminder that for a strong as Mac is, there's a part of her that isn't. She never talks about it and true to her word she keeps her demons her own – unless they're forced out by means that could be compared to torture.

But still, Chibs has never seen Mac look so beautiful before. Purely beautiful.

It doesn't hurt that she's completely naked under the towel that leaves almost nothing to the imagination.

With the cigarette dangling from his lips, Chibs swallows hard and his Adam's apple bobs as he drinks in all her glory.

It's obvious she's holding back laughter and failing, "Are you okay?"

Chibs slowly nods because he can't figure out how to say 'Aye'.

"Wow, Chibs. And I'm not even naked," Mac _is _laughing now, "I forgot to grab my clothes, is it safe for me to get them or should I lock myself in the bathroom?"

Once upon a time when Mac was six feet tall at the age of seventeen she was uncomfortable with her body but with her age came a feeling a great comfort. She holds no shame in her body; she feels no need to be self-conscious. She is who she is and that's it.

Mac has never been one to care what other people think, after all, and if Chibs' can't handle seeing her in a towel that's _his_ problem. Not hers.

After a series of quick blinks, Chibs snaps out of the mesmerizing spell that comes from looking at such a beautiful female form.

He clears his throat and nods with determination to not become enthralled again.

That whole sharing the bed thing?

No way it's happening now.

Mac walks across the dirty green carpet, her feet silently padding along as she goes to her duffle bag – the one Chibs still stands in front of.

Mac kneels down in front of the bag that now over-flows with random garments from Chibs searching for her cigarettes. She spots the carton on top and pays it no mind, assuming the truth and not caring in the slightest that he went through her bag for smokes. She starts digging through the bag – obviously having some sort of particular item in mind.

Chibs tries to look away but he can't.

He peers down. He has a straight line of vision directly down the front of the towel and has a perfect view of her supple bare breasts.

Even though they're partially covered, they do not compare in _any _way to the magazines in the bathroom. _Oh, god. Did she see my porn?_

And yes, Mac did. But considering that every single one of her friends is male it did not faze her in the least. His collection of magazines is actually fairly demure compared to some of the things she's seen not only in the homes of her brothers but within the station itself.

"_Chibs._" Mac says, face still buried deep into the duffle bag as she digs.

His voice only barley lighter than his usual gruffness, "What?"

"Think you could you stop staring at my boobs?"

"Right...Yes." He takes a step back and turns his back to his friend but decides it's just best to leave the room altogether.

He can hear Mac's whole-bellied laughter as he walks down the hallway.

* * *

><p>Mac sits at the bar with her legs crossed and her back braced against the lip of the counter, both elbows resting up on the dark wood top. Her still damp hair is slowly gaining its wave, but it still falls over her shoulders. Chibs' large cross stands out against the yellow racer back Mac wears, coupled with black Bermuda shorts that stop just short of her knee. Her heavy black boots are thick and shocking against the pallor of her exposed calf.<p>

Next to her sits Juice; With his elbow bent atop of the bar he rests his temple against his fist and stares tiredly down into a cup of coffee. Juice needs his juice to be Juice, and Mac is learning that before his first cup of coffee, Juice is more zombie than person.

Now that the garage is open for business people have flooded the car park and the few sons who are not allergic to the morning have woken up. But still, in the large space, the five people who mull around leave the clubhouse feeling lonely; like a saloon in the old west.

Clay sits in the Chapel, with his feet up on the redwood table and his face hidden behind a copy of The Charming Times. Cigar smoke billows up from behind the thin newspaper and more than a few times Mac's heart has jumped - thinking it was on fire. But it's just Clay smoking a cigar.

Happy is hunched over a table, staring down at Juice's laptop as if he were trying to telekinetically set it aflame. Technology has never liked Happy, at least that's what he says. Right now, while trying to buy some new parts for his bike off of e-bay the computer is giving him a rather hard time over entering his credit card information. His dark eyes peer up from over the top of the laptop to glare at Juice – who is offering him no help.

"Will you just let me have my coffee? _Geesh_." Juice grumbles into the mug before taking a large gulp.

Chibs walks in from down the hall, damp hair brushed away from his face. He wears a solemn face, because in a few hours Lyla will arrive to transform Mac into something of a normal person, perhaps a scantily clad person at that, which means that this is all really happening. As tiredness creeps up on him, he drags his feet while walking.

He needs coffee. Scratch that - He needs caffiene administered intraveinously. There's no way he's going to risk the chance of falling asleep while guarding Mac.

He takes Juice's coffee out from his hands and swallows it all in one gulp.

"Hey! That's not cool, dude! The pot's right there!" Juice whines.

"Shut it." Chibs grumbles, stalking off to get a cup of his own.

Juice mumbles harsh words under his breath as he gets up to get another cup, following directly behind Chibs.

Juice waits, rather impatiently, for Chibs to pour his cup and get out of the way. The man takes his sweet time, blocking the pot with his body as he pours in creamer and sugar. After what feels like an entire lifetime, Chibs finally walks away.

Juice goes to grab the coffee carafe, but it's empty. Not so much as a single drop left. Which means he has to wait for a whole nother pot to brew - which in turn means that he has to hold off on helping Happy.

"Oh, _come on_! So not cool!" He yells.

"I said shut it!" Chibs points his finger at the young man and shouts with smirk – Juice is the newest patch, the youngest patch, and therefore he gets flack. That's just how it is and Chibs enjoys giving Juice a hard time. Besides, his mother always said hard times make a good character, so he's really just helping the poor lad out.

Coffee mug in hand, Chibs takes a seat next to Happy. Happy snaps the laptop closed, proclaiming that the silver object must be broken – To which Juice rolls his eyes.

Chibs would offer to help, but he knows more about how women think than he does how to operate Juice's sophisticated equipment.

"I tell 'ya man-" Happy starts, but is cut off by Juice.

"Computers hate you. No they don't, Haps. You just can't- _OW!"_ Juice is cut off by Happy, who picked up a spoon from the table and hurled it at Juice. It hit him right in the head, just missing his eye by a hairsbreath.

In the Chapel, Clay peels back one corner of his newspaper, "Knock it off!" He barks. He takes his turn glaring at each person in the living area with his dusty blue eyes – Mac included even though she hasn't done anything. Just to let her know that he's not in the mood for this early morning fighting.

Clay goes back to his paper, quietly muttering to himself, "Sometimes they're men, and sometimes they're children."

Back in the living area, Chibs takes a gulp of his coffee before placing it on the table.

"Happy, I'm going to ride with Mac to Chester and I want you to come along. We'd hang a few streets back just incase she needs us." Chibs says to Happy. With the heaviness of Chibs' voice he clearly conveys that there really isn't a 'no' option.

Happy steals a glance at Mac, who pours a gracious amount of Bailey's into her cup of coffee from behind the bar now. When she nearly over-flows the coffee cup she pulls her hair back like it's a curtain and bends down to suck up the extra, she catches him looking at her.

Whether it be reflex or something else, Happy quickly looks back to Chibs.

"Sure, alright." Happy nods.

* * *

><p>For two hours Mac and Lyla are in Chibs' dorm room, sealed away by a locked door. Every now and then some noises would carry out into the living area. A laugh here, a loud '<em>fuck'<em> from Mac there.

After the first hour Chibs had the apparent "audacity" to try and enter his own dormitory and was met by some rather loud creative cursing on the part of the blonde female duo inside.

No one has dared to step close since.

The Sons of Anarchy may be an outlaw MC, and the Sons themselves may be as tough as they come but when it comes to the women in their lives that they care about...

Those females have the capability to scare the crap out of them.

Especially in the case of Gemma, who has taken a break from the office and joined Clay in the Chapel. She waits along with just about every other fully patched member of the Sons, plus the two prospects, out of curiosity. Her curiosity is different though, she doesn't want to see Stripperella. She is here to fully size up the woman that her husband has not stopped talking about. After spending the last week up at the cabin for some peace and quiet she has not yet even met the woman who belongs to a 1%'er MC and that is unacceptable to the Queen.

There had been a brief argument earlier in the morning over the trustworthiness of Mac – an outsider, but the fight was quickly ended with Clay telling her that both Chibs and Happy vowed for her.

From over the chatter of the random conversations being held, the sound of a door opening and two females emerging from their fortress can be heard.

Everyone quiets down.

It's as if this is the MC version of a debutant presenting. They lean and tilt their heads to see down the hallway – waiting to see how Mac looks and ready to get the ball rolling on their plans for the Russians.

The oppressive tension in the air has been gaining ground all morning as Mac turns the corner with Lyla it reaches its crux.

Chibs stands just slightly off to the side of the hallway opening, riding gloves already on.

He cannot believe what he sees…

* * *

><p>Mac looks in the mirror, still in complete disbelief at just how skilled Lyla is with that air brush machine of hers.<p>

"I don't look like me." Mac says.

"But you look beautiful and you know it." Lyla smiles comfortingly.

Staring back at Mac from the surface of the dirty mirror is a tall woman with straight blonde hair that sparkles in the sunlight. Her skin is smoothly pale without the faintest trace of a scar or tattoo.

She still wears her yellow same outfit only Lyla has made her trade the clunky "shit-stompers" for a simple pair of white flip-flops.

Lyla's beautician finesse extends beyond just covering up Mac's skin – she has expertly applied all the proper fixings to Mac's face and easily shaved five years off of her face with something that Mac has never seen before, a white shimmery cream called highlighter.

Mac has decided she does not want to dress up like a stripper just for the sake of going there to pose as someone looking for a job.

If she were going for an interview she would be stripper Barbie, but she is not putting on four-inch heels and a mini-skirt that would leave her with no room for a concealed weapon unless absolutely necessary.

Pausing with her hand on the door knob, Mac turns around to face Lyla. During their short, but fairly intimate time together, Mac has not necessarily made friends with the woman so much as decided she is someone who _could _be a friend. The young blonde has a spark in her that Mac can sense, and as a person full of fire Mac always appreciates that personality trait in others.

"Thank you for helping." Mac says with full sincerity.

Lyla smiles and shrugs with both of her shoulders, "Anything for the club, 'ya know?"

Mac nods darkly, "Oh, aye. Trust me, I know."

Lyla's smile falters for just an instant, but she recovers quick with a laugh - getting over the fact that Mac's words had sinister meaning.

Mac opens the door and walks out….

* * *

><p>"<em>AWW<em>! What the hell? You don't look like a slut!" Kozik cries, throwing his arms up in the air.

* * *

><p><strong>Epitaph: <strong>Good? Bad? Let me know : ) REVIEW

Saint Andrew the Apostle: The Patron Saint of Singers (Side note: Also the Patron saint of Scotland)


	12. Saint Genevieve

_**A/N:**_ Chapter 12 is finally here. Sorry for the long wait, but I must've written and re-written this chapter ten times now. This works, though (lol, or at least I hope so). I'm happy with it, and I hope you all are too.

A billion thank-yous to everyone who reviewed, and those of you who are continuing to read and have this story as your favourite or on your watch list.

Enjoy :)

Chapter 12: Saint Genevieve

* * *

><p>"<em>Aww!<em> What the hell? You don't look like a slut!" Kozik cries, dramatically throwing his arms up in the air.

The blond Tacoma Sgt.-At-Arms has a habit of not thinking before he speaks. Had he not been plagued by such a trait he would've realized it was a bad idea to say a comment such as that within arm's reach of Mac.

Because Mac reaches out and smacks him so hard in the stomach with the back of her hand that he doubles over, a loud _oof_ coming from his lungs.

And that is something Chibs saw coming from miles and miles away.

There's some laughter, but Chibs doesn't really pay attention to the noises around him.

All he can do is look at Mac, near gawking as he tries to wrap his head around just _how _different she looks.

The only MacLeod he has ever known has been tattooed and scarred. Her ink is as much a part of her as her flair for the dramatic or those intense eyes of hers. So, Chibs understandably expected her to look different.

He just didn't count on her looking like an entirely different person. It's still her, but the faux virginity of her skin makes Mac seem exponentially more innocent. Her appearance dissolves away Chibs' knowledge of who she truly is. Without the marks of her life, it's like she was baptized by Lyla. Even though Chibs knows it's completely absurd that simply covering tattoos and scars could do that, it's still the same effect.

There's no trace of ink, no hint of scars (including the scar on her forehead), and even the bruising on her hand has vanished from sight.

She's a completely different person; a new person. A Mac he has never seen before.

But as he overcomes the initial shock, he realizes that for how odd she does look, there's not a strong enough concealer in the universe that could hide who she truly is. Her stalwart identity is carefully crafted into everything about her, from the way that she stands with such confidence, as if rooted into the floor, to the way that she glares at Kozik, as if taking him out would be easy as batting an eyelash.

The neon danger sign over her head still flashes.

And Chibs can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing. After all, it's never good for strippers to scare away people – or rather, it's never good for people _posing _as exotic dancers to be so fiercely powerful that it emanates off of them like a magnetic field.

Mac takes the few paces between her and Chibs with her usual wide strides, all the while holding onto the cross dangling over the ledge created by her volumptuous chest to keep the heavy pendant from swaying.

Buried deep under Chibs' wild quirk and flaws, there is a quiet hopeless romantic that damn near swoons over how well she wears it. And, more importantly, that she wears it without a single word of argument or teasing.

She stands close enough for their breath to mix and without warning, Mac reaches out and messes with the grey cotton scarf around Chibs' neck. He looks down, watching her suddenly delicate fingers as they fix the twist in the fabric so it looks a little more composed and less like he is being strangled. He was fidgeting with it a lot while Mac was locked away, being baptized with concealer by Lyla, and it shows.

Up close Mac smells different. No longer does she smell so heavenly of lavender and tobacco. Her scent is a faint, smooth citrus with some sort of sweet smelling floral mix to it.

Chibs doesn't like it. She smelled better before.

As he watches her fingers finish smoothing out the scarf, he catches the stiffness in her right hand.

He takes her hand carefully by the wrist.

"You really should've kept the splint on." He says, casting her a quick disapproving look before he carefully presses on her broken knuckles to feel for anything weird.

"Oh, aye. Stripper with a splint. Now that's _hot._" Mac snorts. It's a good point, but regardless, her knuckles are broken and it's most likely that by taking off the splint she's set her healing back a few weeks.

"How's the pain?" Chibs questions, not stopping his fully focused inspection of her swollen hand. Even though he got over the shock of her fresh-skinned appearance, he still can't quite believe that make-up can cover up a bruise so deeply blue.

It makes him wonder about the bruise she had on her cheek when she first arrived and about how deep it truly was.

Mac just shrugs, conveying that the pain is there but she can take it. Chibs more feels the gesture than he sees it.

"Just be careful of it, alright?" He releases his hold on her hand and her arm falls limply by her side.

Mac patronizingly salutes Chibs with two fingers, "Aye, aye doctor sir_._"

"Anyone ever tell you that you're a wee bit abrasive?" Chibs asks, lightheartedly.

Mac smiles. It's not a wide smile or a happy smile, but it's a smile nonetheless, "All the time."

* * *

><p>Clay and Gemma stand in the doorway between the Chapel and the main living area. Clay has his arm wrapped around her back, his palm nestled into the soft curve of her spine. The King and Queen of the Sons of Anarchy, and Charming by association, watch their loyal subjects before them.<p>

Gemma watches Mac closely, her dark, round eyes unwaveringly targeted on the tall blonde across the way.

The very first thing Gemma notices about MacLeod is not even an aspect of her appearance, it is something completely different.

The first thing Gemma noticed is the very faint way Chibs' face relaxed as Mac walked into the room. It is the same dumb look Clay gives her every morning when he rolls over in bed and mumbles a sleepy _I love you_. It's a look filled with relief, as if just being in the vicinity of the ones you love makes everything right in the world.

It's then that Gemma realizes she already knows Mac.

Chibs and she have had many conversations over coffee and cigarettes, or other herbs that can be smoked as such, and once Chibs has mentioned "the other woman I love", as he said one day as he looked up at the pristine blue sky.

So, Gemma knows that Mac is a good fighter. Gemma knows that Mac loves the smell of the air just after a rainstorm. Gemma knows that Mac grew up in Stornoway. Gemma knows so many little facts about the woman from the five-minute diversion in Gemma and Chibs' conversation.

"Shit, Clay." Gemma breathes. Her husband looks down at her, confusion wrinkling his face in such a way that he gains a striking resemblance to a Shar-Pei.

"What?" He asks.

Gemma de-laces herself from Clay and stands in front of him for a brief moment, "You better hope nothing happens to her while she's helping with the Russians." She turns and walks away – off to go greet the woman she already knows.

Clay watches his wife leave, brow still wrinkled with confusion. He loves his wife, _always_ has. But just because he loves her, doesn't mean he understands her. And Gemma's warning leaves him puzzled._ Just what the hell did she mean by that, anyway?_

He does a quick trot to catch up with her, regretting the youth-requiring action as his knee grinds painfully.

While mentally bitching to himself about getting too god damned old, he takes his place beside Gemma. Looming over his wife is more about safety, because he's still unsure that it's a good idea to have two women who are so blatantly dominate and powerful in the same vicinity.

He is _not _dealing with Gemma breaking another chick's nose. Or whatever Mac would do _after _Gemma broke her nose.

Clay's caution is fully warranted.

"So, you're the one this guy," Gemma thumbs over her shoulder to Clay, "has been talkin' about." She says this to Mac with obvious reference to her husband but with her eyes on Chibs only he and Gemma understand that she's also talking about him.

Chibs fidgets with his scarf. Suddenly the soft cotton feels scratchy as wool.

Mac notices this secret interaction between Gemma and Chibs, of course, because she follows Gemma's gaze that adverts her own.

"Aye. I suppose." Mac says. She suspiciously glances between Chibs and Gemma once last time before Gemma's eyes snap up and finally greet Mac's emeralds – but just for a brief second.

Up close Gemma gives Mac the good ol' once-over. Starting from the head and working her way down, Gemma carefully inspects Mac and passes final judgment.

Mac waits, not so patiently. She has been through this before. Never from the wife of a President, but from many, _many, __**many,**_ business associates. It's the 'is _she_ really cut out for this?' weighing.

And yes, yes she is. Regardless of what the Queen passes as her verdict, it doesn't matter in the least to Mac. She's not here to please some old lady. She's here, today, for the club and that's all that matters.

If this Queen bitch doesn't like her?

Well, then that's just too fucking bad.

But for the sake of keeping peace, Mac puts up with the meat-inspection stare. But it's obvious she's not happy about it, at least to Chibs who knows that the clenching and unclenching of Mac's jaw that visibly hardens her whole face is a precursor to unsavory deeds.

Chibs moves in the slightest closer to Mac. Clay perfectly mimics him, stepping closer to his wife, ready to intervene if anything is to happen.

It could've been three seconds, it could've been three minutes – but it felt like a millennium that Gemma judges Mac. For everyone involved.

Finally, Gemma lets out the smallest of sighs, so small and silent that it is more a short, heavy breath. She pays no more attention to Mac and completely turns to her husband. She places a hand on his jaw and stretches up on her toes, though she doesn't really have to, and places a kiss on Clay's stubble-covered cheek.

"I have to get back to work."

Gemma looks now to Chibs, briefly, and she gives the tiniest of nods with her chin – a nod of approval.

She's gone with the soft click of her heeled shoes against the floor and nothing more. She leaves Clay confused beyond recognition, Chibs partially stunned and Mac relieved.

There are only three women in the world that have been able to shake Gemma's well-built foundation enough to scare her. Her mother is the first, her third-grade math teacher is the second and Chibs' estranged wife, Fiona is the third.

But as Gemma walks out the door, and into the warm sun, she has a gnawing feeling in her gut that her very short list is about to grow by one.

_Jesus, Chibs. You sure know how to pick them._ Gemma sarcastically thinks to herself as she slips on her sunglasses.

This is going to be a very, very long day.

* * *

><p>Mac squats on her haunches, in front of the back bumper of her Accord. She changes the red-lettered Massachusetts license plate that draws unwanted attention to her vehicle for a phony blue-lettered California plate.<p>

Even though it may not be necessary, she doesn't want to stick out any more than necessary now that she's leaving the safety of Charming.

Ask her if she's afraid that when she crosses the Charming border, Doherty and Sherlock will be lurking for her, and she'll say no.

Ask her that hooked up to a polygraph and you'd know she was lying.

Chibs and Happy walk out of the clubhouse, sunglasses and riding gloves on. Happy stops in his tracks, no more than three steps out of the door, as he sees that Mac is planning on using her car, not the loaner he _swears _Clay said he'd offer her.

"Oh, no. I am not riding behind that thing!" Happy firmly protests. From behind the darkened lenses of his sleek sunglasses he glares at the beast that Mac calls a car. He does not enjoy smelling acrid burnt oil, especially not for an almost two hour drive, nor does he enjoy coughing up black phlegm for the rest of the day.

Mac briefly looks up to Happy and squints against the sun to see him, "Ride in front. It's better if I just follow you, anyway. You guys know the way."

Happy nods, slowly, as if he is cautiously accepting a compromise that is barley appropriate. Chibs fixes the bandana around his head, tightening it and pushing it up so more of his hair is out of his face while he walks over to his bike – the Dyna with the black z-bars that stand out against the bikes of his brothers. Well, the bars and the Scottish flag stitched into the saddle.

Mac finishes tightening the final bolt and tosses the Massachusetts plates into her trunk then slams it shut. She quickly wipes the light coating of dirt that covers her fingers off by rubbing her hands against her shorts.

Mac puts on her polarized aviators with the blue frames, and there should be _The Who_ music playing in the background as she smiles and speaks, "Let's rock 'n' roll, bitches!"

* * *

><p>The drive is taking too long. The speed limit is too low and the road is too long. The air is too hot because the air conditioning doesn't work – hasn't for years, and the breeze coming in from the open windows does little to cool Mac's sweaty skin. Though the air-brushed concealer at first felt like a thin veil, it now feels like a thick blanket wrapping her skin and she's suffocating. The punk music that blares over the Accord's weak sound system is too slow. The heavy, fast drum line and the wailing guitar does little to excite her as it normally does – it does nothing to get her pulse going.<p>

But that's because she needs no help in that department. Her heart already races.

Mac's fingers rap against the steering wheel and she dances around the upholstered bucket seat, still trying to get comfortable a half an hour into the long ride to Chester.

Everything is taking too fucking long. With Happy and Chibs riding in front of her they are forcing her to do no more than ten miles an hour over the speed limit.

So they trot along at 40 mph, but in her Accord, with her synapses firing off as rapidly as they are, it feels slower than the crawl of tortoise.

It hits her right then that _maybe_ doing all that coke before she left Charming had been a bad idea.

Mac rolls her jaw around as her dilated eyes flash between her mirrors. She is a suspicious driver by trade and as the paranoia settles in with the cocaine high, she has a tendency to drive a majority of the time with her eyes behind her.

But there's no one behind her, no one partially hidden by a haze of grey smoke. The white van that has been with her for ten minutes has disappeared. At least for now.

With nothing better to do Mac smokes another cigarette. It's her ninth since they've left the SoA compound. A diluted nasuea creeps up on her but she pays it no mind. She needs to do _something,_ anything to soothe her dancing nerves.

Definitely not a good idea to snort so much blow. _How much was it anyway?... A shit ton?_ , She asks herself. But she can't really even remember.

All she can do is squirm around in her seat, smoke and look in her mirrors.

It reaches a point where Mac can't take it anymore.

They need to get there _yesterday._

Mac presses number 1 on the disposable cell phone Chibs purchased for her. He put himself on her speed-dial, and she suddenly finds herself grateful. She's not so sure she'd be able to hit the impossibly small buttons on the tinier than tiny pre-pay.

It starts ringing.

_Briiing….Briiing…..Briiing._

Chibs has a difficult time getting his cell phone out. He has to stand up on his bike and dig in his pocket while only holding on with one hand.

When he retrieves the small phone, he sees that's Mac calling and answers with as much trepidation as if walking into a lion's den.

"For-the-love-of-God, could-you-be-going-_any-_fucking-slower?" Mac yells into the receiver, the very instant Chibs places his phone to his ear. In front of her Chibs swerves a little – he had not been expecting such a loud greeting.

"We'll be there in an hour -"

"Fuck you! Go faster!" Mac hangs up on Chibs unexpectedly and throws the cell phone over her shoulder into the backseat to release a little tension.

It doesn't help. She's still wound up tighter than a tourniquet.

Chibs extends a middle finger behind his back as he rides in front of her. She pounds on the horn with the side of her fist as retaliation.

But, regardless, Chibs goes faster and Happy keeps pace, allotting Mac her desired speed.

* * *

><p>There's a small park roughly a half a mile from Puss-In-Boots that Chibs and Happy take advantage of. The outlaws are off the main road, hidden from any Russian eyes that could take offense to their presence but they're only a quick ride away in case of trouble. The park itself is really nothing more than sprawling field, bright green and lined with large trees. There is a family having a picnic by the swing set near the parking area who get up and moves as Chibs and Happy back their bikes up into the angled parking spaces that face the exit road.<p>

Happy turns his bike off, but Chibs does not do the same. He leaves his motorcycle running and his hand remains curled around the black Dyna's throttle.

The hot sun beats against their backs and burns at their exposed necks as they sit still; waiting.

* * *

><p>Mac pulls into the empty parking lot of Puss-In-Boots. The large square building has tall stucco walls painted a burnt orange. There are a few blacked-out windowed sparsely dotting the exterior walls, and only one large two-door entry under a black awning. The large neon sign on the flat roof is off and the colours of the fluorescent bulbs in the lettering are dulled. Instead of bright pink and blue they look like different watered down versions of grey.<p>

The sign is off. And the car park is empty.

Empty.

She stops in the middle of the parking lot, surrounding by nothing but tall fence and asphalt with faded white parking space lines.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" She exclaims to herself.

She hastily throws the car into park and gets out to check the main door for business hours. She hopes they're open because if _no one _thought it wise to check and see if it's _open…. _Well, someone will be walking with a limp for three years after how deep up their ass her boot is going to be.

Mac stomps up the stairs to the door where the hours sign is posted…

And sure enough – they're _supposed _to be open.

But apparently the city health inspector doesn't think they should be. It's either a bad idea to keep pussy and food so close together or some guy got denied a lap dance. Regardless, it means that these Russians really aren't any sort of criminal to worry about. They don't even have any city officials in their pockets.

That ignites a new spark of confidence within Mac.

"Oh, this is going to be too easy." Mac scoffs to herself.

She only feels annoyed that Lyla's make-up and the trip were completely useless for a split second before she hears another car entering the parking lot.

Turning the corner into the barren parking lot is a white GMC work van.

The same one that was in her rear-view as she left Charming.

Out of reflex she moves a hand to her hip to grab her gun, but she is met with nothing. She's not carrying.

_"Fuck."_ She cusses to herself, bolting for her car. She jumps down the steps and runs over the sun-bleached asphalt faster than she ever has before. They don't call it running for your life for nothing.

She manages to grab her Baby Eagle from under the passenger's seat just as the van comes to a screeching halt behind her.

She doesn't even think to grab her cell phone and utilize Chibs' number on her speed dial, along with the help it would bring.

The passenger's door of the van opens with a loud, squeaky creak. Mac bends and swings out of the cabin of her car, gun already aiming for the van and it's unknown inhabitants.

Before she can fully turn and face the van, a single gunshot rings out and Mac falls to the ground as the fired bullet pierces through her right shoulder and imbeds itself, along with Mac's flesh, and blood into the dashboard of the beige Honda behind her.

Mac falls and the black Baby Eagle flies from her grip, landing on the floor of her car, while she crashes against the scalding hot asphalt. Instantly and instinctually she grips tight to her right shoulder as the burning pain radiates out. Slick, warm blood quickly covers her hand, so she presses hard against the wound, through the immense pain it causes, to try and stop the bleeding.

The pain is almost unbearable.

She's been shot before and it's never hurt as much as this. The bullet must've tore through bone.

And that's bad.

She looks through the blurry haze of pain-induced tears to see Doherty standing over her, a .45 revolver griped in his hands and pointed directly at her head.

Mac thinks of the cell phone now.

"You're coming with me." Doherty says. The breeze picks up and catches his shaggy copper coloured hair, whiping it about. It's not quite long enough to impose his vision, and Mac can't help but mentally ask why this couldn't of happened when his hair was just a quarter inch longer.

If it were flying in his eyes, he'd be distracted and she could get out of this. But laying on the ground, with Doherty over her? Mac doesn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting out of this.

She looks over the barrel of the large chrome gun and up into Doherty's large hazel eyes. Mac stares daggers but Doherty stares bullets.

And in the end, bringing a knife to a gun fight really does no good.

"Fuck. You." She spits on his shoes, the tan work boots speckled with reddish-brown stains that can only be one thing.

Doherty's upper lip curls in a vicious snarl.

"That was a real fuckin' bad idea."

_I can't go out like this. Not on _his _terms._ Mac stares up at Doherty, defiantly facing death.

He cocks his gun.

* * *

><p><em>BOOM<em>

Cigarette crushed between his lips, Happy snaps to attention. He looks over to Chibs who looks more attentive than ever; he rises slightly out of his seat, out of pure instinct to try and hear better.

"Was that a-" Happy starts.

In what seems like a split second Chibs pushes up the kickstand on his bike with his heel and flies out of the park, leaving before Happy is able to start his bike.

Chibs' pulse races so hard that even over the deafening growl of his engine all he can hear is his blood coursing through his veins.

* * *

><p>"I need to know why Sherlock worked with you." She says quickly, stalling but also speaking the truth.<p>

With his finger almost completely curved around the trigger, Doherty pauses. The twisted smile that contorts his whole face is a look that even Satan himself, with his entire evil prowess, would find eerie.

But not Mac. Her jaw is clenched so tight that her whole face has become rigid. A vein on her neck visibly throbs.

It's not a look of pain.

It's a look of pure determination to not waiver in the face of death.

_Hold Fast._

"He lasted for a while. Took the pain real good, but when I showed him his own entrails… Well… He squealed like a pig. Told me right where you are..."

There is no more pain in Mac's shoulder. It has vanished completely.

There is only red-hot rage that makes everything else insignificant. Even the pain of loss is pushed away by the need to rip Doherty's head clear from his shoulders.

She is _not _dying now. Not so long as Doherty lives.

No. No. No.

_Hold Fast._

Coming down the road Mac can hear a motorcycle approaching. Doherty hears it too, because for a brief moment worry flashes his face before he looks over his shoulder.

With Doherty's focus on the road, Mac springs up from the ground. Fast and intense as the crack of a whip, she lands a harsh blow to Doherty's kidney.

Out of the corner of her eye she finally notices the driver of the van.

And the driver, a bald, pudgy man with brown eyes, has a TEC-9 aimed for her head.

Mac's really starting to get tired of staring down barrels.

* * *

><p>Saint Saint Genevieve: The Patron Saint of Disasters<p>

Please review!

: )


	13. Saint Michael the Archangel

_**Author's Note:**_ So, this is chapter 13. One more left after this one.

Chapter 13: Saint Michael the Archangel

* * *

><p><em>Thud-ThumpThud-ThumpThud-ThumpThud-Thump<em>

Mac's deafeningly loud heartbeat pounds against her skull, loud as the impending drum of approaching war. Blood gushes from the hole in her shoulder, unobstructed as she holds her hands close to her chest with her palms flat, making her hands clearly visible to Iain. Crimson has completely soaked through her yellow tank and the heavy, wet fabric clings to her skin like Saran wrap.

The tips of her blonde hair have become also become wet, tainted by blood. A strong gust of wind dips into the enclosed parking lot and picks up her loose locks, whipping the pale blonde strands around. Her skin gets painted with red lines wherever her hair brushes against her exposed skin, leaving a disturbing red criss-cross pattern on her face. She looks more like the victim of a gruesome slashing than a gunshot.

The bright sun glistens off her long platinum hair while it whips around her alabaster face, giving Mac the appearance of a blood-stained halo.

She's nothing more than a bloodied Saint staring at her executioner in the mere seconds before her death.

Even as the extreme pessimism from her realistic view of the world kicks in she refuses to believe that _this _is how she's going to die – gunned down in the parking lot of a strip club.

MacLeod's squared face is set hard as granite and if it weren't for the red river that freely flows down her side and stains her hair, it would be impossible to know she's been shot.

She fights hard to maintain her look of defiance. The high caliber bullet that tore through the inside of her shoulder, so close that it could be considered a chest wound, did just that – it _tore_ through her shoulder, regardless of veins or bone. The cocaine and adrenaline rushing her system has dulled the pain to a point where it feels like nothing more than a bug bite.

Unfortunately, being so overloaded with adrenaline and coke, it also means she's bleeding out faster.

No matter how deep she breathes, she remains lightheaded.

Mac's green eyes flicker to her side, where Doherty still writhes on the ground from her solid blow to his kidneys that rivals the force and power of the great Micky Ward. When he fell and instinctively wrapped both his arms around his torso, his revolver fell on the ground and skidded under the van. The sun shines off the clean chrome barrel that sticks out from under the chassis, calling attention to itself.

Without letting Iain see, she stretches her foot under the van and drags the revolver closer to her so that she can grab it in an instant.

As soon as Iain isn't aiming for her head, that is.

Mac forces herself to look back at Iain. The sun is so bright that even from behind the polarized lenses of her aviators, her interpretation of the world is bleached; everything appears ten degrees lighter than it actually is.

The matte black gun in Iain's hands looks grey. The curves of the perfectly circular cut-outs in the extended barrel of the boxy gun seem to reach deep into an abyss. He holds the gun too tight in his hands; the deep creases of his fat palm folds strangle the grip. If he fires, his aim will be off.

Though, at a distance of four feet, aim isn't necessary for a kill shot. One little twitch of his finger is all that stands between Mac and death.

Mac concentrates hard to keep the wavering from her voice, resulting in her accent rolling deep and thick as if she were enraged – which actually isn't that far from the truth, "You're a buisness man, right? How much would it cost for you and Doherty to tell Jack that I'm dead?"

For a moment, Iain looks insulted and for that moment Mac's racing heart stops. But then his round face relaxes. While twisted in the free-standing bucket seat for better aim, he leans forward, resting his elbow on the center console and keeping his gun pointed at Mac – but aiming more for her chest than her head.

"What money do you got?"

"One million - cash. That's five-hundred thousand for you and the same for McPussy over here," She nods her head towards Doherty on the ground. She pauses briefly, her straight-lined nose flaring as she glares down at the bounty hunter, before looking back to Iain, "Or, you can let me kill Doherty – tell Jack he was a casualty, then it's the whole lot for you… I've got it right here in my car." Both her elegantly curved eyebrows rise over the blue rims of her aviators.

"Are you for real?" Iain asks, his seedy eyes narrowed with skepticism.

Mac nods.

For the record, Mac is not lying.

Being a Saint is highly lucrative, especially when you're involved in almost every business transaction of the club like Mac is. She's been with the Saints for a long time, and the entire while she has lived well within her means. Frugal as she is, the cash that she saved in her safe and made sure to grab when she fled Boston totals just over two million dollars.

Cold hard cash is hard to turn down, and it's clear that Iain is more than interested.

"It's in your car?" Iain clarifies with his seedy eyes narrowed.

"Aye. I can give it to you right now."

"Don't you fucking do it, Iain!" Doherty orders from the ground. His sharply angular face, bruised a sickening mixture of deep purple and yellow around his obviously broken nose, is scrunched up into either a grimace or a sneer - and Mac's betting on the latter. He's starting to recover from the punch; he's starting to push himself up from the ground with aid of a knee.

Iain's thin upper lip curls. He has been putting up with Doherty's harshness for over two weeks now and it seems this latest comment was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.

"A million works for me. Shoot him." Iain says, motioning towards Doherty with a fairly casual wave of his Tec-9.

Doherty hears this and makes a quick move to grab his gun from under the van.

But Mac is closer and Mac is faster.

Her motion of grabbing the revolver and pulling back the firing pin is one fluid motion and as Doherty rushes her in an attempt to save his life, she takes hasty aim then fires.

_BANG._

He stops instantly as his hands fly up to clutch at his chest. Confused, he stares down at the new hole in the middle of his chest that stains his crisp white button-down shirt with a thin trail of blood.

He looks then to Mac. With his thick eyebrows wrinkling so high up his forehead that they stretch to his hairline, his hazel eyes large and round as tennis balls and his mouth a gap, the look of shock on his face is priceless as he realizes Mac just killed him.

"You bitch." He breathes.

Doherty's knees give out and for a moment he kneels in front of her. There's a flicker in his eyes that Mac easily recognizes; it's that last bit of a blackened soul leaving his body.

Then gravity takes the dead man down and his entire body slumps over. His head rolls limply onto its side and his dead eyes stare up at her.

Mac cocks the heavy gun again and aims down, directly over his head.

Even though he's dead, he just doesn't seem dead enough for Mac to appreciate the reality.

She breaths in.

Exhale. Squeeze.

The bullet bursts through his head and the back of his skull blows out. Blood, brain and bone all slowly ooze out as his skull collapses.

Mac still doesn't feel that he's dead enough and takes aim again, but the loud growl of Chibs roaring into the parking lot cuts through her rushing heartbeat - effectively snapping her back into reality. Chibs races into the parking lot like a knight on his shining steed, but Mac holds up a flattened hand to hold him back. This woman does not need to be saved, at least not right now. She has everything under control.

Although, Mac does realize that everything could go very wrong in a matter of millisecond and Chibs knows this too; he pulls out his .9 mm as he rolls to a stop.

Happy follows in after Chibs almost instantly and halts directly besides him – ten feet away from the large 'V' formed by Mac's Honda and the van.

Though deep within her own blackened soul she burns with the intensity of fire and brimstone, Mac is eerily calm on the outside. Stuffing the gun into her waistband, she looks back at Iain.

Iain feels small under the intense menacing of her gaze, even though Mac's dark green eyes are hidden behind sunglasses.

"I'm going to get the money. You try anything dirty and my friends over there are going to make the last, miserable seconds of your existence _extremely _painful." She warns.

"Just get the money." Iain says with more hostility than even _he _thought he could muster.

Mac applies as much pressure to her shoulder as she can while she walks to the trunk of her car. She has to think about every step as she takes it, reciting a marching mantra to herself in her head.

_Left….Left…Left-Right-Left._

She leans into the back of the Honda, afraid she'll topple over. Her fingers numbly struggle to get the key out of her pocket and into the slot - they just won't work the way she wants them to.

Mac takes in a deep breath. She can't help but worry about how much longer she has before she completely passes out.

Eventually she gets the key in and turns it. The trunks open with a low _pop_. She then reaches down low, smearing blood all over the cracking beige paint of her car as she fiddles with the latch hidden under the bumper – the only way to get the secret compartment open.

It opens with a soft _click._

Mac nudges her trunk open with her uninjured shoulder then lifts up the faux spare tire to get to the compartment.

Among the highly illegal items ranging from guns to grenades there are two black duffel bags – each containing one million dollars, and she tugs hard on the thick nylon handles of one of the canvas bags to bring it into daylight.

Even though her blood is in short supply she carries the bag that is just shy of fifty pounds easily.

While walking back to the van, she briefly looks over her shoulder and motions for Chibs and Happy to follow with a jerk of her head.

Iain has stepped out of the van and stands by the back doors. He still holds his gun, but it is merely a mechanical extension of his right arm that hangs by his side.

In his other hand is his blackberry that is all but lost under the puffiness of his fat hands.

Iain looks beyond her to the two bikers that stand behind her like wings. Both Chibs and Happy have their guns drawn.

Happy's face is chiseled stoically as always, but he makes a special point of intensifying his permanent subtle snarl. Happy adjusts his firm hold on the grip of his handgun. The thick leather of his gloves audibly tightens his seal around the weapon.

His dark eyes, hidden behind equally dark sunglasses, do not once leave Iain – not even to check out Mac's nasty gunshot wound. Happy watches the short man closely like a hunter watches a doe reach down to take a drink of water.

Chibs has his arms crossed, .9mm held up near his chest. While Chibs faces Iain, he makes it look like he's also intently watching him, but thankful for the secrecy of sunglasses his eyes are on Mac. Unlike Happy, Chibs cannot resist the need to look at her and her injury.

He tries to asses her condition as well as he can from a close distance. There's _a lot_ of blood. To him, it looks worse than the prom scene from _Carrie._ The bullet entered at an angle from behind, starting from just beside her scapula and exiting out from under her collar bone.

Stitches aren't going to fix it. There's probably fragments of bone floating around along with ruptured veins (there may be a lot of blood, but it's nowhere near enough to be from a nicked artery). Professional medical work, and more than likely surgery, is the only way to fix the hole.

Mac needs a hospital and needs it soon.

"I don't have the time for you to count it, but it's all there. Make the call." Mac demands as she throws the bag full of money at Iain's feet.

Iain squats down and unzips the bag. It's full of thick, banded stacks of 50 and 100 dollar bills. He takes a quick stock of it, digging his hand that suffocates his blackberry down deep just to make sure it's not padded.

"He's gonna want proof." Iain comments.

"What kind of proof?" Mac asks in a thickly-accented growl.

"A picture should do the trick." Iain says. He's trying to play cool and dominate, and for the most part, it's working.

"Fine," Mac snaps through gritted teeth, "I'll get on the fuckin' ground and play dead. Just make the call."

Jack's number is programmed into the speed-dial of Iain's blackberry. He hits two quick buttons then holds the phone up to his ear.

A new bout of dizziness hits Mac like a ten-ton brick. Instinctively, she stretches out an arm to brace herself against her car but her numb finger tips barely fall short of brushing against the side of her car.

She falls, crashing against the hard tarmac so hard that she bounces a couple of inches of the ground.

Then Mac lays still, sprawled out on the pale asphalt with her stomach pressing against the pavement and her face squished into the arm bent underneath her head.

She doesn't get up. She doesn't even twitch.

"MAC!" Chibs shouts her name so loud as he instantly rushes to her that it makes Iain jump.

Happy briskly lifts his gun, "You keep makin' that phone call." He orders.

Iain's calm-and-collected act has vanished entirely; he panics as his eyes flash between Happy and the dying woman on the ground.

Jack answers his phone, but Iain doesn't know what to say at first.

Chibs unties the grey scarf from around his neck then quickly wraps the makeshift tourniquet into the very crook of Mac's shoulder – as close to her heart as he can get. He moves her hair out of the way and frantically feels at her neck for a pulse.

There's no throb underneath his finger pads.

"Mac's dead." Iain says breathily, bubbling with excited disbelief.

For the record, he's not lying.

* * *

><p>Saint Michael the Archangel: The Patron Saint of Dying People<p>

Remember, this is not the end.

Please review :)


	14. Saint Lazarus

A/N: So, this chapter took me a while and all apologies for the extremly long wait. I know I said that this was going to be the last chapter, but it's not. This is more like a part 1 of the finale. I'm not 100% happy with how this particular chapter turned out, but I figured I finished it, so I should put it up since it's been so long already.

This chapter comes to you after listening to 'Memorial Day' by the Dropkick Murphys basically non-stop, and I think you should all look up the song. Not only is it awesome...but... well, actually it's basically just awesome. ;)

Chapter 14 part 1: Saint Lazarus

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>In the book of John, Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead after four days. If you look at it one way, Lazarus is the first recorded zombie in history. If you look at it another, it's a fucking miracle.<p>

However, if you look at it pragmatically, it's nothing but a tall tale – a myth. A lie. Dead is dead, and dead is one thing you don't come back from.

Regardless of whether or not Lazarus was actually raised from the dead, the name Lazarus itself has become synonymous with anything alluding to resurrection of life.

Such as Lazarus syndrome. The spontaneous resuscitation of life after death has been pronounced. In the entire world, there have only been 38 cases of Lazarus syndrome ever recorded.

Chibs has heard of the phenomenon and he never believed in it. Dead is dead, and dead is one thing you don't come back from.

That very pragmatic view of life and death has been very solid in Chibs.

Until now.

Fifteen minutes after stopping the CPR he spent twenty minutes on, fourteen minutes after killing the fat man in the van, thirteen minutes since he started damning everything around him to hell…

Mac breathed.

Fifteen minutes after stopping the CPR he spent twenty minutes on, fourteen minutes after killing the fat man in the van, thirteen minutes after damning everything around him to hell, Chibs and Happy witnessed a fucking miracle.

* * *

><p>Chibs doesn't remember much about his hospital stay after his face was cut. He's not sure if he's suppressed the memories or if he was too doped up on painkillers to even form any memories, and frankly he doesn't give a damn.<p>

Because the one thing he does remember, and remember well, from that horrible time in his life is a positive memory…

Mac was there when he woke up.

She was in a recliner under the window in his hospital room, sitting on one lengthy leg with the other strewn over the back of the chair, in what had to be an uncomfortable position. But she looked as comfortable as could be, her nose buried deep in a worn copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo. _Chewing on her thumbnail in the anxious way she does, her emeralds scanned the pages and took in the classic words for the umpteenth time.

What he remembers most though, is how the second he was fully awake – she seemed to know. She looked up from the book and what she did next still perplexes Chibs to this very day.

She smiled. With no reason in her own life to smile, she smiled warm and whole just to let him know that somehow everything would be okay.

And she was right.

Somehow everything was alright.

Somehow…

Chibs eyes have long since glazed over with the fond memory of that day as he stares at the cream coloured wall opposing him. He sits in the surgical waiting area of St. Thomas', slouched over in one the semi-comfortable puffy chairs. It's the same spot he's been in for nearing ten hours, save for the occasional five-minute break to go outside for a cigarette or the increasingly frequent walks to the low-end coffee maker so graciously provided by the hospital.

He refuses to leave, despite knowing (and being told by more than a few fellow Sons) that there's nothing he can do for her sitting in a chair, waiting.

But what Clay, Happy, Bobby, Opie and Jax all don't understand is that Chibs _has_ to be there - and not just because she was there for him when he was stricken with a smile.

He has to be there the very second there is any word of Mac's condition.

He _needs_ to know that she's okay. Because Chibs doesn't know what he'd do if she wasn't…..

"Somehow." Chibs mumbles quietly.

"What was that?" Jax asks from besides him, momentarily looking up from the two-year-old People magazine spread out on his lap. Jax is the latest person of three to keep the somber Scotsman company while awaiting news of MacLeod's condition. It is a quiet, semi-awkward position to hold, but Jax does not mind. Besides, it's not_ just _keeping Chibs company.

It's keeping gaurd.

It's making sure no more shit hits the proverbial fan.

Chibs blinks, snapped out of his recollection by Jax's intruding voice, and the glaze quickly dissolves from his brown eyes. Slouched over, he rubs his palms together between his wide-spread knees and sighs.

"I'm just wondering what's takin' so damn long. We should've heard somethin' by now." Chibs says.

"The longer they're in there, the better." Jax says wisely.

Chibs nods slowly in silent agreement, eyes directed at the linoleum floor.

He can't shake the image of Mac, blue-lipped and bleeding out on the ground in the parking lot of Puss-In-Boots from his thoughts.

He can't calm the knot in his stomach.

He can't do a god damned thing sitting in this chair, and it's starting to get to him.

"She's gonna make it." Jax says, rather casually considering the severity of the situation, as he flips a page he didn't even read.

There's a long moment of uncomfortable silence that Jax barely notices, forcing himself to scan the bent pages of the magazine rather than look at Chibs and his articulate expression of numbness.

Chibs swallows. It's impossibly hard to say the words that have been on his mind for the past ten hours.

"I don't think so, Jackie-boy."

Jax flips the magazine closed then tosses it back onto the small table in the corner with less than precise aim – the magazine falls about three feet short of the table, but Jax pays it no more mind.

"When Abel was born and I thought he wouldn't make it, you told me he would… You and my mom, you were the only ones who _knew _he was going to make it. You sat me down, father-to-father, and told me to have a little faith…. So I'm telling you now Chibs, she's going to make it. Just have a little faith." Jax says with the utmost conviction.

Chibs looks down at his reddened hands - the same hands that were drenched by Mac's blood and the same hands that he scrubbed raw until it stung, trying to wash away any trace of her fleeting life. But under his nails and in his cuticles, stubborn bits of her blood refuse to go.

Even her blood is stubborn….

It's true that if anybody has a chance of making it, Mac does. She's a fighter to the extreme, in all aspects of her life. She's had more near-death experiences in her life than even most cats are granted.

A little faith, Chibs has. But unfortunately a little faith isn't enough to fix acute blood loss, miracles or not.

* * *

><p>As Tara comes through the double swinging doors leading back into the surgical wing, there's only one thing Chibs wants to see.<p>

And that's a smile on that sweet face of hers.

But instead Tara comes through those doors, the doors Chibs has waited by too many times, and there's no smile. Her white sneakers squeak with every step she takes, and her eyes are completely downcast. The pale green surgical mask, speckled with little dots of blood, clings around her neck like a strong pair of hands – choking her.

Chibs takes that one look, for no more than a second, before he decides he does not want to hear the bad news she brings.

Jax sticks out an arm to stop Chibs from leaving, and Chibs unsuspectingly walks right into it. Jax' muscular forearm hits into his chest hard, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

With a scowl so faint it is barely a muscle twitch, Chibs speaks low without bothering to turn around and see Tara, "She's dead, aye?"

The cold, deadened hostility of Chibs is made so much worse by how much it visibly bothers Tara.

The skilled surgeon freezes where she stands, wringing her important, steady hands so hard that they turn a stark white.

She blinks once. She blinks twice. And then the fog visibly lifts from her mind.

Tara licks her lips, "No. She's alive – for now, anyway. We've got her stabilized but there's a lot of internal damage. A sliver of broken bone dissected a portion of her subclavian artery, but thankfully while the bone was in place it slowed the bleed. We were able to fix that, but surgery to repair the damage in her shoulder is too risky right now…" Tara's words trail off, and it's quite obvious that there's something she's withholding.

"What is it?" Chibs impatiently urges.

"There's _a lot_ of bone damage. We got out as many fragments as we could, but the bullet went right through her coracoid process and it almost burst…." Again, she doesn't finish her words.

"_Tara_, what is it?" Jax demands this time. Tara finds his eyes and seems to also find comfort - she stops wringing her hands so tightly.

"There's another piece of bone – at least from what we can tell on the x-rays... They were really hard to get… Umm, there's this bone splinter that has moved its way near her heart – probably from all the CPR-" This receives a guilty response from Chibs that no one catches, "... The risk of that surgery alone is… Let me put it this way, the tip of the bone is about a half a millimeter from puncturing the right atrium of her heart."

Chibs moves away from Jax' impeding arm – closer to Tara.

"Is she going to be okay?" He asks, a brief, emphatic pause before each singular word.

Tara looks from Chibs to Jax – trying to find the courage in her boyfriend to tell Chibs something she really doesn't want to.

_"Tara_." Chibs yells.

"I don't think so." Tara says meekly.

Chibs turns quickly and bolts from the hospital.

Jax makes no effort to stop him.

* * *

><p>2004<p>

"SARAH! I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU STOLE MY – Oh, never mind!" Mac shouts, her words morphing into a light chuckle as she finds the shirt she has feverishly been digging through her large closet for. A flustered Mac has spent the past ten minutes knee-deep in the messy pile that is her closet. Finally she finds it, buried deep in her closet, under the four foot pile of crap, consisting of clothes and shoes Mac can never find a place for, is her designated St. Patrick's Day t-shirt: a bright green t-shirt with small white shamrocks that form something of a polka-dot pattern. She pulls out the shirt, gives it a quick sniff test to make sure it's clean, then tugs it on.

Sarah, after hearing her name being shouted, leans in the doorway to Mac's spacious bedroom, chewing on a red plastic stirrer from the coffee she got nearly three hours ago. With one pale arm folded under her c-cup chest, she watches her older sister as Mac rushes around her overly-blue room, frantically jumping into a pair of semi-clean white washed jeans while simultaneously trying to tie up her long platinum blonde hair. Mac's multi-tasking is a bad idea by anyone's standards and as she trips over herself, resulting in a downward tumble that leaves her in a separate pile of very carelessly searched through clothes, it's something Sarah did more than expect. She practically had a premonition about it. Then again, Mac is the clumsiest person Sarah knows so it's not exactly a premonition if something like this happens on a daily basis.

Mac does not immediately get up from the pile of clothes, but lays there for a second as she lets out an annoyed groan completely muffled by the mound of fabric pressed against her face.

"Smooth moves there, sis." Sarah laughs. Her laugh is light and airy, much like her voice, and absolutely nothing like her sisters. Their accent isn't even the same – Sarah's is far more relaxed than Mac's.

Sarah currently has her fourth job of the year as manager of the local Coach store, and is dressed as opposite from her older sister as possible – even given the holiday. Sarah has a flair for fashion and once upon a time had dreams of being a fashion designer, but has recently settled for selling the things she loves the most – which is basically anything with a designer label (a.k.a. for overpriced, in Mac's opinion). Sarah wears a sage green draping shirt that exposes her creamy smooth back and a white pencil skirt that shows off her equally smooth and creamy legs. A pair of white patent leather pumps, with five-inch heels that could break the most sturdy of ankles, completes her posh look - along with Sarah's most treasured possession: a long strand of white sea pearls that was once their great-great grandmothers. The pearls are tied together in a loose knot that hangs well below her navel.

Sarah fidgets a lot – currently she is chewing a bright red swizzle stick beyond recognition and twirling the strand of pearls around over and over again.

"So, are you almost ready?" Sarah asks.

"YEAH! YOU WOMEN TAKE WAY TOO LONG!" Sherlock shouts from the living room. Mac's bedroom, at the back of her apartment, is separated from the living room only by a ten foot hallway, and along with Sherlock's taunt quickly comes a brief, deep chuckle from Chibs. Both Sherlock and Chibs sit on Mac's puffy black leather couch in the living room with sand coloured walls, waiting for the two sisters – like always. The four have plans to go out, plans to hit up as many pubs and private parties as they can before passing out. Not to forget the festival, of course.

At this point, they're gathering four-some has become tradition. Chibs travels to Boston a few times a year, but he always makes sure he's in Boston for March 17th. And they're always sure to party like there is no tomorrow. After all, it _is _St. Patrick's day…. Which is basically one politically correct holiday to get absolutely, positively shit faced.

It is truly a holiday in which all can enjoy, Celtic heritage or not.

"Fuck the both of you." Mac lightheartedly snips at the two men in the other room. Doing her best to remain composed after taking such an embarrassing fall, Mac quickly applies some blush to her cheeks. She's not one for make-up, her usual routine consists of blush, powder, eyeliner and mascara. But today, she's adding a little extra - forest green winged tip eyeliner special for the occasion.

The eyeliner makes her eyes appear exponentially more vivid.

Sarah takes a seat on the Mac's queen-sized memory foam bed with bright yellow sheets that are _never_ made but rather a perpetual messy wad. While hugging one of Mac's over-stuffed pillows in her lap, the younger MacLeod takes a look around her sister's sun flooded room. The floors are a light coloured hardwood, much like the rest of her apartment, and the tall walls are painted a serene blue-grey. Around the surprisingly spacious bedroom, her large pale birch furniture is sparsely placed; a bed opposing the window and her dresser and mirror combo shoved into the North corner. One of the very few personal touches Mac has added to her bedroom, aside from empty cigarette packages, is a framed photograph of her and Chibs. The photo is surrounded by a sleek silver frame and in the photo, a slightly younger Chibs and Mac stand outside Mac's old flat in Belfast. It's not a special picture – just a candid photo of the two frozen mid- argument. Mac's arm is paused as it extends to slap Chibs' stomach with the back of her hand. Chibs is frozen during speech, some unknown word with an 'O'. They're fighting, but yet at the same time both of them are smiling wide and true enough to have dimples.

Sarah took that picture… Chibs was saying something funny – something poking fun at Mac and her road rage.

That day, Chibs and Mac kept making fun of Sarah for how much she was using the camera. That picture was probably taken on her sixth roll of nine. It was the first day she got to use the .35mm Nikon she saved two years to buy. But Chibs and Mac sucked it up and suffered through every single picture. This particular one, the one that Mac chose to frame, is Sarah's favourite also.

It's candid and perfect - completely exposing every thing about Chibs and Mac in one image.

"So, are you bangin' Chibs yet?" Sarah asks bluntly, making a point of looking her sister in the eyes through the mirror which Mac stands in front of while doing her make-up.

"No." Mac says, without skipping a single beat – or messing up a single stroke of her eyeliner.

Continuing to be blunt, Sarah presses the issue, "Is it because of his scars? Because I honestly think they're kinda hot. You know, in a… bad boy sort of way – but you go for that thing. Boy, do you _ever._" Sarah laughs.

Mac stops putting on her eyeliner. She stands, as always, feet slightly apart with her left just behind her right, and looks at Sarah in the mirror.

Silently she deeply sighs while capping the liquid eyeliner shut with a surprisingly loud _snap._ Turning quickly on her heel, Mac finally meets her sister's expectant gaze.

"I'm the reason he has them, Sarah." Mac says.

"How are they your fault?" Sarah places the photograph exactly where it was then leans back into the bed – looking up at her big sister and patiently waiting while Mac visibly needs a moment to formulate an answer.

"It's a long story, Sarah…"

Sarah scoffs, "I'm your sister, you're _obliged_ to tell me every "long" story you have." Sarah says, using jerky air quotations because she knows what 'long' means in Mac speak. When Mac says it's a long story, what she really means is it's something she doesn't want to talk about.

"I'm not going there, Sarah." And it's clear that Mac means it – she gives Sarah her signature look, complete with a hand wave, which clearly states this conversation is over. Sarah, however, is not done.

The youngest sister rolls her eyes again - an annoying habit she's picked up from Mac. She snatches the picture of Mac and Chibs from the nightstand and holds it up close to Mac's face. Sarah's own empathetic face is perfectly hidden behind the framed memory.

"Look at you two here. If anyone else saw this, they would see exactly what I see. You two are in love, but you're just too chicken-shit to admit it."

Mac takes the picture from Sarah's hands, and for a moment it seems that she will longingly look at the frozen memory and imagine what could be.

But she doesn't. Mac places the framed photograph face-down on the bureau behind her without a pause.

"I'm not afraid to admit I'm in love, because I'm not." Mac says, but she's looking at some obscure spot that is not Sarah's eyes.

Sarah stands from the bed and places both hands on either of her sister's tattooed shoulders, forcing the 26-year-old to look at her.

As gentle as a summer breeze, Sarah softly smiles and speaks truly to Mac, "Honey, you so are. The sooner you admit it, the sooner you two can have that happily ever after you know you deserve."

Mac pushes Sarah away rather lethargically, like she doesn't care enough to argue.

Which is obviously something that's _very _not Mac – and that in itself confirms all of Sarah's hopes.

"You love him and I can tell – hell, _anyone _can tell."

"We would never work. He lives in California, he's still technically married – we're just…"

"Mac, listen to me," Sarah says sternly, "You two are _perfect _for each other. Take a chance, ask him out on a date – or at the very least _finally _fuck him and get rid of the sexual tension between you two that makes _me _need to masturbate after being around you guys."

Mac blinks once. Then blinks twice.

"I don't ever want to hear about you masturbating again." Mac says briskly, ignoring Sarah's suggestions like the expert of avoidance that she is.

"Too bad. You love him– and he loves you! You deserve to be happy, Mac. _Please,_ it's practically my dying wish that you two end up together." Sarah pleas.

Like a lead weight, Mac plops down on the foot edge of her bed and sinks down low into the comfortable foam. Her green eyes filter out one of the five windows in her bedroom, the one facing North – the one facing the busy street below.

Sarah sits down next to her.

The sun is bright. People stumble about happy and ignorant.

It's a life Mac wishes she could have.

Mac doesn't look away from the window, and she speaks like a bashful child, "Even if you are right, and that's a big if, how are you so sure Chibs loves me back?"

Sarah smiles a half-smile that deeply dimples one of her cheeks, "He travels what? - Three thousand miles to see you? And whenever he shows up, it's like you two pick up exactly where you left off_._"

Mac still doesn't look convinced.

Sarah adjusts how she's sitting – she scoots in closer to Mac and wraps a slender arm around her sisters strong shoulders then pulls her in close. Mac puts up some resistance to her sisters gentle tugging but eventually gives in and eases into her sisters embrace.

"Whenever he sees you, his face smiles."

"His face smiles, isn't that a little redundant?" Mac asks with a wry look.

Sarah nods, the dimple-filled half-smile returning, "Oh, so what. You're whole face smiles too," a barely noticeable blush creeps up on Mac's squared face, "You're both complete dorks with those black and white movies of yours you love so much-"

"_Hey, now_!" Mac begins to object, but Sarah ignores Mac and keeps talking, "You both rock on the guitar. You're both fighters – and damn good fighters at that. And when you fight neither one of you takes it personally, _especially _when you lose," Mac nods in the slightest of fond manners at that, "You went through Belfast together. You both love to ride... Chibs and you are perfect for each other, Mac. I don't know how to make it any clearer! Plus, you make each other _so _happy. Whenever you're around him Mac, you smile. You laugh." Sarah takes a pause, and her softly squared face gradually becomes somber as she visibly comes to a warm conclusion. Sarah reaches out and places a loving hand over Mac's, which rests limply by her side. Longingly, Sarah stares at the sight of her pale hand over Mac's perfectly matching pale, though ink riddled, hand for an instant. When Sarah looks back up, she meaningfully looks deep into Mac's eyes, "He makes you happy, Shannon. Whenever you're around him you laugh – you actually truly laugh like you used to. I know you both had a bunch of shit," This visibly catches Mac by surprise because Sarah does not often swear, "that you went through, but _so what?_ You've only got one life to live, and honey, I say get yourself a piece of that man pie before someone else does."

Mac's eyes shift back out the window, towards the concrete jungle and away from Sarah. Even with the microscopic amount of anonymity and comfort granted to Mac from turning her back to Sarah, she fights an internal war to speak any further.

The topic of her and Chibs is not one Mac likes to discuss. She loves Chibs, but their past is a dark and twisted mess that Mac prefers to ignore, and moments like this – moments when Sarah hounds her over starting a relationship with the older Scotsman, Chibs and Mac's best-kept secret past is the only thing she can think of. The worst parts of their lives are intertwined together.

What Jimmy did to her changed Mac more than she's ever consciously realized. And, in many ways the situation was made exponentially more depressing and devastating by Chibs' involvement. The most horrifying, demoralizing moment in Mac's life is perfectly, ironically intertwined with the most horrifying, demoralizing event in Chibs' life.

Jimmy pinned Mac to the ground and no matter how Mac fought she could not get him off of her. No matter how hard she bucked or pushed or kicked or bit – he was on her with the fierce, unmovable determination of malice. No one since has proven strong enough to keep Mac down - and that's something she vigilantly makes sure of. What Jimmy did to her pinned to the ground, which is an event Mac refuses to remember even all these years later, is the reason that Chibs went to Jimmy's house the night he got chibbed and lost everything.

It is something that has bonded them. It is something that has given their relationship a depth that is deeper than Challenger Deep.

But it means that there's too much at stake.

Chibs' boot-clad foot steps _thud-thud-thud_ down the hallway and he appears in the doorway, leaning his head in through the opening. His black sunglasses are pushed up high on his smooth forehead and in the bright sun his shaggy brown hair almost looks blonde.

It's clear he's starting to turn from impatient to irritated.

"Are you ladies almost ready? We've got some drinkin' to get done."

"_Mac_." Sarah says, glaring at her sister from the corners of her eyes.

_"Sarah_." Mac snaps right back. Sarah narrows her bright blue eyes and purses her peach lips so much they turn white.

In one big huff of breath before storming out of the room she tells Mac, "You could die tomorrow, Mac. I really suggest you get some pie."

She brushes past a greatly confused Chibs during her hasty escape.

Chibs turns from following Sarah storm down the hallway to Mac with a cocked eyebrow, "What the fuck was that all about?"

"She really wants me to try this pie." Mac says with a casual wave of dismissal.

"Do you even like pie?" Chibs asks. Off of the door knob, Chibs takes Mac's black leather jacket, which is really just her cut with sleeves sewn back on, and hands it to her. It's a blatant move to get Mac out of the door faster.

"Oh. I love pie." Mac says. She slips on the jacket and follows Chibs down the hallway.

"Then you should try it." Chibs suggests, shrugging nonchalantly. He never thought he would see the day he understood women, but for the most part he understands Mac and Sarah – because for the most part the two have their own language he has to try and decipher; But he knows whatever they're talking about really isn't pie.

"DRINK TIME!" Sherlock hollers, thrusting a fist in the air.

Drink time indeed.

* * *

><p><em>Current Day<em>

When Mac's eyes shudder open for the first time in ten days, the sun coming in from the window and the bright fluorescent lights are too much for her too take.

Clenching her eyes shut, she painfully moans, low and grumbly, from a throat that is incredibly dry and scratchy.

Before the vague memories of her dreams sinks in, a scalding pain in her chest and shoulder jolts her body and conscious completely awake.

Not expecting such a ferocious amount of pain, she screams.

And she screams loud.

Nurses, dressed in stiff-looking scrubs with cute characters printed all over, rush into the room.

They shout things that Mac can't hear – orders for medicine and doctor names.

For Mac, all there is is the horrible pain. It feels as if her chest was ripped open and her shoulder torn right off.

It is one pain Mac is not grateful for.

"Mac, it's gonna be alright... Calm down!"

* * *

><p>Good chapter? Bad chapter? Am I a horrible author for putting more than a month between updates? Let me know in a review ;)<p> 


	15. Saint Alphonsus

So, the long awaited ACTUAL ending to Hellhound! OMG! I feel like a fangirl of my own story for finishing this after like what... a freakin' year? There might be a crap ton of typos in this, but I got it finished then wanted to put it on here. Revisions, if needed, will be made. Microsoft word is my only beta-reader. Did one proof-read, but I really am **extremly** sorry for any mistakes.

OMG! HERE WE GO!

PS, Holy-freakin-sappy alert. This chapter is just so... gushy.

PPS, the song 'Mercy' by OneRepublic deserves credit for this. I heard it once and it kind of inspired me to do this. :)

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 15:<span> Saint Alphonsus

* * *

><p>Still as a fucking statue, Chibs leans into Mac's hospital bed with his chin bowed to his chest while he cups one of her limp hands within his own. Small, shallow breaths are the only ones he can maintain as the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor fades to dull background noise.<p>

_Keep our girls safe, Filiip_.

He remembers Jimmy's last words too well in this moment. At the time, Jimmy's dying words proved to enrage Chibs more than quell. How dare he ask that of him? How dare Jimmy have a pair of brass balls big enough to use his final words as a way to ask Filip to protect not only Fi and Kerriann, but also Mac – the very cousin Mr. Big Balls did unspeakable, vile things to. With narrowed eyes and a snarl, Filip agreed to Jimmy's dying request. Not that he would ever need someone to ask that of him, the need to protect those women so close to him are a deeply engrained crucial need of his – a insatiable instinct, if you will.

But now… Now, staring at Mac's comatose body all that Chibs can think is that he has failed to keep his promise. He couldn't keep Mac safe. No matter how hard he tried, he failed at the one thing that was paramount. He failed her in the worst way.

Moving for the first time in what feels like an hour, his stiff bones protest as he brings Mac's hands close to his lips.

"Please wake up. I need you to wake up." He begs of the woman trapped in limbo before kissing the cold back of her hand. He raises his eyes and studies her pale face long and hard, desperately searching for even the faintest twitch of movement. But he isn't even granted a dream-like flickering of her emeralds entombed behind their eyelids. Not a twitch or a jerk to be seen.

Nothing.

He sucks in a deep breath that fills his lungs to the brim but does little to push away the anger bubbling just beneath his controlled surface.

He rests her hand back to the bed yet refuses to let go. He won't let go, not ever. He can't.

With a sigh, Chibs leans back in his chair. His brown eyes remain transfixed upon her not-so-peaceful face.

He shakes his head faintly and for a reason he's not quite sure of.

"Mac," he begins then stops, unsure of what he is trying to tell her. And then it spills forth like water bursting through a dam, uncontrollable in the utmost, "You need to wake up so I can tell you… So I can tell you how much I love you. I can't bear to lose you – you're the last good thing in my life. I've lost my wife. My daughter doesn't even know who I am. Mac, you're all I have. When I nearly got blown to pieces a year ago, all I could think of was you. I wanted you there with me. I wanted… I wanted right then to tell you all of this." He draws in a deep shaky breath, still awaiting any sign of movement on Mac's part.

Again, there is not a twitch nor a jerk to provide solace.

"I need you." He speaks the words so painfully true so quiet that his words are lost in the atmosphere.

Yet still, not a twitch nor a spasm to be seen.

Defeated, Chibs hangs his head, feeling as if this situation will never resolve.

* * *

><p><em>Belfast, 2000<em>

With one knee bent over the back of the horribly uncomfortable hospital chair, Mac lays down with her head nestled in the crook of her bent elbow as she watches Filip slowly breathe. While concentrating on watching his chest slowly rise and fall with each calm, unconscious breath she tries to mimic his relaxed state.

But she can't.

Her insides are ineffably twisted up with guilt and shame, only exacerbated every time her eyes lock upon the fresh stitches extending out from the corner of his lips. Thoughts race wild through her mind as she gazes upon those horrific wounds, horrific thoughts about how this very predicament is her fault.

If she hadn't shown up at his door…. If she hadn't told Filip what Jimmy had done to her… If she hadn't told Filip that his wife was sleeping with her cousin… If none of these things that were her doing happened, Filip would not be laying here now – _they_ would not be here now.

Unable to lay any longer, Mac pushes herself up into a sitting position – inwardly hissing at the pain it causes her to move her own battered body. She breathes deep to quiet the ache radiating from deep within her pelvis and legs, though the sudden overflow of oxygen does little do help. Absentmindedly she tenderly rubs at the scab forming on the side of her skull from where Jimmy knocked her unconscious with a whiskey bottle. That bastard, she thinks. Not so much for the crimes he committed against her but rather the violence committed against Filip. She always knew her cousin had the inner workings of a demon, she witnessed it many a times and his demonic nature was made concrete when he hit her with that bottle and she woke up to him atop her, a jovial sinister snarl on his face as he pinned her to the ground. Of course, she was as much as coward as he was a sinner for not fighting back enough but those issues remain besides the point. The hurt Jimmy has inflicted upon Filip, and not just the physical damage, but the damage to his family… that is what makes the man truly malicious. However, while Jimmy may have been the one the force that smile upon Filip, the true blame lies with Mac. The culpability is hers and hers alone. And for that sin she can truly never be redeemed.

She sucks in another breath, this time pensive, as her emerald eyes fall to the floor. She rests her elbows on her wide spread knees, hunched over so that her back is a crescent while she unblinkingly stares at the tacky linoleum floor. As her consciousness recedes further into her mind the sound of Filip's heart monitor fades to the tune of distant white noise.

This is all her fault.

The notion weighs heavy on her soul, so heavy that it shows on her body physically – from the way her shoulders slump to the way her brow remains rigid with inner tension. Even her wild wavy hair is limp, still damp from the torrential rain that drenched her when she last ventured outside nearly an hour ago for a cigarette.

Whispering only to the floor, "I'm so sorry, Filip." She says. She then lifts her head just enough to spy her sleeping friend. He seems so calm – so unaware of his surroundings. For that is this situations only saving grace. At least he has temporarily starved off the hellacious reality awaiting him. The very same hellacious reality Mac finds herself trapped in.

She stands slowly, wincing with the pain that comes from doing so, then drags a plastic chair over to Filip's bedside with an uneasy gait. However, no matter how much her own body aches, she does not sit immediately. Rather, she stands over Filip, gazing down upon his face.

Mac reaches her hand out with the intentions of touching him but stops suddenly, recoiling her hand with questioning. With a swallowing of her guilt and a rising of her empathy, she reaches a hand out again. Tenderly, as tenderly as she can, she touches his unscathed cheek first. His skin there is soft but dry.

Her square face contorts in such a way that it seems she will cry but she doesn't as her finger travels south, to gingerly feel the freshly stitched incision stretching out from his lips. She can only bear the sensation for a second before drawing her hand back as quick as the striking of a scorpion's tail. Mac takes a deep breath.

She fights with herself not to shed a tear even though every bone in her body aches not only from her cousin Jimmy's atrocious acts but from the emotional turmoil of knowing that Filip's condition lies on her.

This man, this man whom she has known for only a few years, this man who has saved her life, this man who she dare not admit to loving, this man who foolishly went up against her cousin and narrowly escaped with his life…. This man who lies in the hospital bed before her…. This man named Filip who will never forgive her.

Voice quivering and heart trembling, "I'm so sorry." With words quiet from the weight of pain.

Again, her hand reaches out. It trembles as it does, hovering centimeters above his flesh before the gentle pad of her thumb runs a small line along his lower lip with the pressure of a feather in the few seconds before she dares to kiss him like she has longed to for too many countless months. She breaths yet another apology as she does. Just what she's apologizing for, however, is unknown even to her. Whether it be for his condition or for something far deeper, Mac is unsure she wants to know.

He doesn't stir beneath her. He doesn't even twitch. Half of her had hoped that he would wake the moment she touched his lips like some sort of sick fucking fairy tale, though the other half hoped her act of affection would remain unknown.

She lets out a long breath through pursed lips and continues to gaze down upon him, her soul crushing under the weight of guilt. Mac then eases herself down into the chair beside his bed, careful of her sore pelvis. Allowing herself only a second to acclimate to the pain sitting brings, she cups one of Filip's limp hands within her own.

Rubbing a thumb against the back of his warm hand, she looks upon his passive face, "I need you, Filip. I need to tell you so many things."

Like how grateful she is that he felt the need to protect her; Like how sorry she is that her cousin did this to him; Like how she needs to confess to him, a man lawfully married to a wicked witch of a person, that she loves him; Like how she needs him to tell her how she can repent for all the damage she has caused.

There is a knock on the door that causes Mac's head to snap up to full attention, any trace of rue instantly wiped from her face.

Who she sees standing there, looking so arrogantly innocent, fills her with a rage that she has only once experienced before. She stands up so fast that the chair is knocked backwards with a loud clatter as it crashes against the floor. The dark skinned woman in the doorway turns wide-eyed, mildly surprised, as Mac rushes towards her without a trace of pain but an overwhelming air of homicidal intent.

Fiona does not back away. She crosses the threshold into the hospital room then closes the door behind her just as Mac comes within arm's length.

"Just what the fuck do you think yer doin' here?" Mac hastily growls.

Unfazed, Fiona responds calmly, "I came to see my husband." Her dark eyes narrow as their gaze locks viciously, Mac seething and Fiona unwilling to let anyone, especially Mac, intimidate her.

"You best get the fuck outta here." Mac warns.

Fiona cocks her head slightly to the side, "Filip's my husband, it's my right to be here."

"You lost that right when you slept with the man that did _that,_" Mac angrily gestures to Filip's face, "to him. So fuck off, ye right cunt."

Fiona's eyes widen just the slightest with surprise, "Did you really just call me a cunt? You know who I am… You know what I can do to you."

Mac steps in even closer, so close that she and Fiona almost touch and when she speaks Fiona can feel her breath upon her cheeks, "I know who you are. I know what you can do," Mac breaks, staring deep into Fiona's dark eyes, "But I can fucking guarantee you this, you even _try_ to hurt me or Filip again and I'll slit your fucking throat."

Fiona scoffs in a laughing, dismissive manner, "I don't have to hurt you or Filip. I know quite a lot about you Shannon from the things Jimmy's told me," then with a sneer she says, "Sarah-"

Fiona doesn't even get to finish speaking before Mac's hands are around her throat, brutally forcing the older woman's back against the door. Mac clenches around her windpipe tight, her green eyes fiery; Fiona's eyes finally widen from fear as she futilely scratches at Mac's tattooed hands in an attempt to get them off her throat.

The voice coming from within Mac's throat is nearly not her own for how sinister it is, "You stay away from Filip and my sister you or I swear to God I'll kill you and it will be a slow, painful death – and that's not a threat. That's a guarantee. Do you understand me?"

Fiona stares Mac down, even though she cannot breathe no matter how hard she gasps. Defeated, Fiona does her feeble best to nod.

The fire in Mac's emeralds does not die down. The snarl in her lips does not dissipate. Mac does not let go. She keeps her rigid grip around Fiona's throat. Seconds remain before the woman dies.

Mac can see Fiona's eyes flutter, she can see the vein in her neck struggle to pump precious blood to her brain. Hastily, and with a loud, angry grunt, Mac pushes her away. Fiona sucks in a large gulp of air that burns her throat, bracing her hands against the wall to keep herself from falling.

It just doesn't seem like enough, not to Mac. She has not been through enough pain to understand . Without forethought and despite the pain it causes herself, Mac harshly brings her knee up and connects it with Fiona's stomach.

With a loud _'oomph'_ of air leaving her lungs, Fiona falls to the floor, coughing and clutching her throbbing core.

"Get the fuck out of here you filthy whore." Mac shouts in a hushed, violent manner.

Fiona looks up at her with eyes like burning brimstone.

"Get. Out." Mac says again. Her fists clenched by her sides turn stark white as she glares down at Fiona. Mac uses every ounce of will she has left to not kill the woman right then and there – the rage burning inside her is uncontrollable like a violent bloodlust. Her chest rises and falls rapidly with heavy breaths that desperately try to quell the fires burning deep within.

Fiona sees this – all of this, the way Mac is on the verge of losing control. So, shakily she stands, having to brace herself against the wall.

"We're not done." Fiona wheezes.

"Yes we are." Mac affirms.

With one final glare and not a single look at Filip laying in his bed, Fiona stumbles out through the door.

Mac turns her head, stealing a glance at Filip who is still blissfully asleep, then she too bolts out the door – in desperate need of a cigarette and something far stronger to soothe her fires.

* * *

><p><em>Current Day<em>

Chibs talks to Jax, Juice and Clay in the small longue room just down the hall from Mac's hospital room.

"I'm sorry about what happened to your girl." Clay says sincerely.

Chibs looks over at him, eyes tense, nostrils flared and jaw clamped – his cheeks quickly gaining a rosy hue.

Juice places a supportive hand on Chibs' shoulder, "We're all sorry."

Chibs looks at the younger patch much more softly, "Thanks."

"But the club needs you." Clay says.

"Mac needs me." Chibs says fast, his voice just a notch quieter than a shout.

"Chibs," Jax says as gently as he can, "She's been unconscious for two weeks. You know someone will call the second anything changes."

Chibs holds Jax' gaze for a pregnant moment.

"I don't care if the club needs me. I'm staying here." He says firmly, sure to lock eyes with his President.

Clay holds back his own anger, the words Gemma recited to him not too long ago ringing through his head. _Why is it always pussy that seems to affect men the most?_ Clay can't help but think.

Then, all of a sudden they hear a scream so agonizingly painful that is sends a shiver up Chibs' spine from down the hall. With less than a second of thought he associates the hellacious scream with Mac's distinctive voice. Without care for the cup of coffee in his hands, he lets it fall to the ground as he rushes to her room – weaving through the people in the hallway so fast that he seems to not even see them. Jax and Juice follow behind while Clay remains.

Chibs arrives to Mac's room to the sight of her thrashing wildly in her bed.

"MAC! It's gonna be alright!" He shouts as he rushes to her bedside – but an orderly is pushing him out of the way while another is sticking a large needle in her arm. Mac turns her head to see Chibs through a gap in the mass bodies of the orderlies and Chibs can swear he sees the traces of a smile just before whatever drug they injected her with kicks in and her eyes once again fall closed.

* * *

><p><em>Belfast, 2000<em>

Leaning against the wall, Mac looks over to Chibs who still stares out the window. Internally, she sighs as her brows wrinkles with concern, wondering just what exactly happened at her cousin's house – curious about the precise actions that occurred.

She licks her dry lips but is still unable to keep the worry from her voice, "What happened?"

Filip shrugs lethargically. Mac thrusts her eyes skywards, her head faintly shaking side-to-side. She takes in another deep breath and asks him again.

He turns to her, his round brown eyes penetratingly filled with turmoil and the reddened, fresh 150 stitches on his face magnify it so greatly that Mac's heart nearly rips in two.

"It doesn't matter." Filip says quietly, unable to move his mouth much.

Mac pushes herself off the wall then takes to sitting on the edge of his bed. He doesn't look away and neither does she.

"I told you what he did to me." Tit-for-tat and all.

Now, Filip looks away, yet only for a second with a rapid blinking of his eyes and then they're back upon her, "I kicked down the door – I was going to kill the bastard. Then Fiona…," he has to stop, has to calm his heart and remember how to breathe, "Jimmy tied me up in a damn chair...Did this," he points to his new smile, "fucking chibbed me good." He laughs once, sarcastically, with a withdrawn notion.

Mac swallows her own building guilt, "I'm so sorry, Filip."

He shakes his head, "s'not yer fault."

Mac smiles a sad half-smile, "It is. I never should have come to you-"

"Don't you fucking say tha'." Filip says, nostrils flaring with anger.

Mac looks away for a moment, to the floor – to the wall, having to gain some courage to look him in the eyes again, "Yea it is. I'm the reason you went there."

Enraged, Filip rises in his bed, "It's not your fault!" He says so loud and with so much movement to his mouth that he tears at his stitches. Hissing and recoiling with pain, he falls back against his bed, clutching his throbbing face. Mac's face wrenches with guilt.

"I'm so sorry." She says. She takes a step closer, wanting to be with him – to help him, but a nurse who seemingly comes from nowhere brushes past her, earnestly checking his vital signs displayed on multiple machines. With one last, sorrowful look, Mac bolts from the room, unable to handle another ounce of guilt and shame crushing her.

* * *

><p><em>Present Day<em>

Dazed, Mac sits upright in her hospital bed with crisp white sheets. Quietly she sits with her head hung low while she unblinkingly stares at her own hands folded in her lap. The doctors have been coming in droves today, popping their heads in and giving up little tid-bits of information cryptically locked within medical jargen that left her feeling more and more confused each time someone dumped something new on her. Perhaps it's that she can't believe what happened, or that the events are too traumatic for her to fully grasp – or perhaps it's the drugs they've been pumping her full of.

All Mac knows is that her head is spinning, her arm feels like it's on fire and it quite literally feels like someone ripped her chest open – because it was. One thing she understood rather clearly was that there were stitches running straight down her sternum because a piece of bone had torn a hole in her heart's outer walls while surgeons were trying to remove it.

The long, reddened incision on her chests peeks over the top of her hospital gown, lurking in the bottom of her sight the whole time she stares at her hands. Every now and then her attention will be stolen by the mark, undoing all the hard effort she is putting forth into taking her mind away from just how severely her body radiates pain.

Chibs walks back into the room with a steaming styrofoam cup of coffee and a stupid little stuffed sea turtle he bought in the gift shop. From a drunken conversation the two had years ago in Belfast he knows that Mac adores the green hard-shelled animals – or, as she put it, "Those fuckers are fucking adorable!". While beady-eyed turtle is a small and simple gesture, it has the possibility of cheering Mac up just enough to get her to crack a smile. Right now, that's all he has to offer her. He has no answers.

"Look what I found." Chibs says, happily showing the stuffed turtle to Mac. Her eyes soften a little when she sees it but a smile doesn't even twitch her lips. Half the reaction he was wishing for, which is more than he was expecting.

"He's cute," She takes the small gift from him, "Thank you, Chibs." She looks down at the stuffed turtle in her lap, petting his head briefly with her right hand. Chibs sits in a squeaky blue vinyl chair stuffed into one corner in the sparse hospital room. He puts his feet up on a small stool stolen from a the pediatric department, a gaudy looking thing painted bright blue and covered in peeling stickers.

"I really mean it, you know." Mac says suddenly.

Chibs chuckles at her gratuitous gratitude, "It's just a turtle, Mac."

"No," Mac shakes her head, "I mean… you - well what you…" She breaks for a pregnant pontificating pause, "Thanks… for everything."

Chibs lets out a gentle sighing breath, looking at her for a good long time, mouth just slightly parted and his dark brown eyes pulled back. Something is clearly weighing heavy on his mind – the moment quickly shifting from lighthearted to extremely serious.

"Mac, you don't have to thank me. I'd do anything for you."

Mac isn't sure of what she should say. There's something about the way Chibs said it, something about his posture and prose that adds a subliminal depth to his words.

Something else besides pain warms her chest.

"Ditto…You're a great man, Filip," Mac doesn't care that she just broke his cardinal rule and neither does Chibs, "And I won't say that I'd be lost without you but I'd definitely be a lot worse for wear." With an uneasy, shaky smile she tries to lighten the mood.

Only Chibs isn't having any of it.

He doesn't speak harsh rather his own concern and woe are stern with affection, "You'd be dead."

He stares at her afterwards, the gaze of who Mac can only tolerate for a few seconds. Chibs sits on the very edge of her hospital bed, watching from the corner of his brown eyes as she pets the small, beady-eyed stuffed turtle in her lap. When he spontaneously thought of the turtle this brought another somewhat shocking realization to Chibs. For as long as he has known Mac, and for as much as he thought he actually knew about her, he doesn't. There are things about her, some small and some large, that he was never even aware of. He can't really fault her though, despite how much he wants to, because he has kept secrets from her to.

For instance, the fact that he loves her – the fact that he always has. Yet that is a secret he has kept for fear that it will never be reciprocated. Unrequited love is the name of his biggest secret.

Most of Mac's life is hers.

"Mac…" Chibs starts slowly. He turns to look at her, yet again caught off-guard by the fresh scar on her chest. A perfectly straight thin pink line that runs a length between her breasts, the tip of it visible over the collar of her hospital gown, stares back. The fresh scar tissue looks slick, wet, under the intense fluorescent lights. Mac herself looks different under these lights. Paler than words can describe with cheeks that have hollowed out from her two-weeks of eating through a feeding tube, all of these things are different. But the one thing, even more than the scar from her chest being sawed into to remove the bone chips near her heart, one thing that scares him is the look in her emerald eyes.

The Mac he knew isn't there anymore.

While she may be miraculously breathing, she's dead. Her eyes are dead as they stare back into his brown while she patiently awaits the coming words he has yet to grasp.

"How many times have we been here?" Chibs asks quietly – his voice just a quiver above a shaky whisper. Mac cocks her head slightly to the side, a small frown in her square face that is white as bleached bone.

"What do you mean?" She asks, utterly confused.

Chibs sighs. He scrubs a hand over his face. He rubs his palms against his denim covered thighs.

"Something has to change." He finally says.

It is now Mac's turn to sigh as she places her new turtle on the small hospital table hovering above her lap, "What are you talking about?" she again inquires.

She sounds so tired. Not the kind of tired where she needs sleep but the exacerbated type of tired. Worn-out. Gone. Dead. Just like her eyes.

"How many times have we been _here?_ Knockin' on deaths door only to be turned away?" Suddenly angry, he asks. Mac turns away, her wild wavy hair falling about her face like a curtain. Chibs sighs, rubbing a calloused hand over his face. Having her turn away was the last thing he wanted.

"I'm sorry I yelled." He says calmly. Slowly, she turns back to look at him – that dead look still in her eyes that bothers Chibs so much.

When he leans in close and she can feel his breath on her lips she suddenly forgets how to breathe. She can smell the coffee he's been gulping and the cigarettes he's been chain smoking on his breathe. She can feel his intentions in a warming tingle that starts in her neck then travels all the way down to her curling toes.

He stays there, so close their noses nearly caress. Her eyes look from his lips, then inadvertently to his scars that send a twinge of guilt through her body that is all but buried under the ruins of their past relationship demolished for this state, then finally she finds his eyes. Those warm brown eyes of his that have always held so much comfort. His eyes feel like home. They feel like acceptance. They feel like love.

She says his name, so low and quiet that her lips are left to spell out its meaning.

"I can't lose you again." He says.

She shakes her head faintly, "I don't ever want to lose you, either. But Chibs, this-" he cuts her off not with a kiss but with a caress. His calloused hand brushes against her cheek as he tucks a stubborn lock of wavy platinum hair behind her ear. She wishes his touch would linger, so she does something so impulsive and unexpected that she hadn't even thought about it. She takes tender hold of his wrist and places his rough palm against her soft cheek.

"This can't be." Her contradictive words and eyes are so heavy with remorse that if anyone else were witnessing the scene unfolding they would think she just informed him of a death. He pulls his hand away.

"Why? Give me one good reason why." Chibs demands.

Mac doesn't have to think. Woefully, she responds, "Because everyone I love dies. I'm dangerous."

Chibs can't help but smile at those words – at the fact that she just admitted her love; at the fact that his love is no longer unrequited but wholly reinforced.

"From the first time I saw you, I knew that I would fall in love with you." He confesses.

Mac has to look away. She has to look away because of the tears welling in her eyes. Tears of longing and regret. Tears of knowing she can never have the one thing she desires most.

His hand around her cheek forces her to look at him.

"I would gladly die if it meant that I got to have you, if even for a minute."

"How can you ever love me after what my cousin did?"

Chibs closes his eyes for just longer than a blink, "I went there that night to kill him for what he did to you. And I would do it again."

Mac shakes her head with passion, "Don't say that." Her voice is shaking, shaking so much that the vibrations go straight to Chibs' heart and threaten to reach equal resonance and shatter it like glass.

"I'm responsible for your life falling apart." Mac places a hand on his cheek, her thumb on one of his scars, her emerald eyes watery from tears that are close to escaping.

"My life didn't fall apart," he shakes his head gently from side-to-side, "it brought me here. It brought me closer to you."

Mac's teary emeralds lock with warm brown eyes. She tries to remember what he looked like before her cousin shredded his smile but she can't.

He leans in impossibly closer, so much so that only a millimeter of air prevents them from kissing. The tips of their noses brush against each other. He takes in her smell, the smell so distinctly hers that even smelling lavender somewhere else makes his heart ache with memories of her. She wants to bust his balls like a mate would; she wants to tell him that this is a bad idea; she wants to tell him anything that would put an end to all of this. But she can't. Even with the proper words bombarding her frontal lobe for escape, she physically can't tell Filip to stop.

"Give us a chance. I can't live knowing that… knowing that we never were."

All Mac has is silence as her hand reaches up to his head, gingerly grasping a handful of the shaggy hair growing from the back of his head. The sensation of being so close sends shivering signals of pleasure throughout his body.

They're so close now – and not just to kissing. They're on the precipice of diving deep into their desires that for too long have gone ignored.

The distance between them closes as she pulls him in. Their lips meet, so gentle a caress it is feather light. But just the same, each is igniting by lightning. Then, before time can elapse, they are upon each other in a fury of pent up passion. Deep kisses with tongue and an accidental teeth-clashing. Chibs climbs ontop of her, pushing her down into the bed while being mindful of her injuries.

"Filip." She manages to breathe between their passion. He doesn't correct her. He doesn't want her to.

His hands work their way into her hair, intertwining with her thick wavy locks. Firmly, he gathers more than a handful and forces her closer. He presses himself against her, his bulging groin felt through his jeans against her scared inner thigh. He grasps at her desperatly like she were falling off a cliff, afraid to lose her, as their passion ignited the air.

It is only stopped when a passing nurse spots the two then knocks on the door, thoroughly jarring the two back into reality.

"Cool down, tiger. Her heart's beating too fast." The nurse scolds while waving a pen at them like a mother wages her finger. However, when she leaves, she has a faint smirk as she closes the door.

It's true – neither of them had noticed until now but the monitor hooked up to her heart beeps quickened. Even though Chibs doesn't outright show it, his chest puffs out with pride. Somehow knowing that he quite literally made her heart race fulfills the moment to be on par with every cheesy, sappy romantic moment in the media ever.

Chibs rubs a hand over his face, only realizing he's smiling when he feels the contortion of his own muscles. It fades quickly, though, when he notices Mac's strange lack of any discernable happiness.

She almost looks like she is about to cry and when her eyes close and her head sways side-to-side Chibs swears she has.

Just as a terrible startled fear begins to settle in, Mac opens her green eyes and Chibs is assured by the lack of water that she is not crying. She's clearly bothered, though – upset and unsure what to do about it.

"You liked that." Chibs defends, for some reason coming across as angry, as he points an angry finger at the heart monitor that has just begun to quiet.

Mac looks out the window, "I did." She sighs then brushes her wild mess of wavy platinum hair out of her face, struggling to say what she needs to.

She finds courage in the form of Chibs placing his hand on her thigh, "Filip," She says low and shaky, "You're my oldest friend… my closest friend. But-" Her words trail off yet again. She feels like she's walking through quick sand, struggling to move forward against this asphyxiating predicament.

"Mac," Chibs says strongly, "I'm done, neither of us are getting any younger and who knows when you or I could end up dead? If that was good, then why the fuck don't we indulge a little? Can you honestly think of a reason to pull the fucking brake before we ever even get started?"

She's shaking her head.

She's crying. Not with copious tears streaming down her face but rather silently, with only one or two.

Chibs falls back, stumbling over himself as he pushes away. Resting on the edge of the bed he watches as she reaches for him, trying her best to act as if the tears are imaginary.

"Why?" He asks.

But he doesn't wait for an answer.

He just leaves the room, fuming like a boiling kettle.

Jax had been watching from the window cut into the hospital room door and is nearly hit in the face as Chibs storms out. Jax had not meant to be a peeping tom, it was purely accidental. He was bringing Chibs a cup of coffee when he spotted their embrace and stayed for what he planed to be a second, basking in the glory that his long time friend has finally found some happiness.

Chibs only casts a sideways look at his blond brother as he stomps down the hall.

Jax looks from Chibs' quickly disappearing back to Mac. She sits up in her bed with her head in her hands, the shaking of her shoulders unmistakable no matter how hidden her tears are.

Cautiously, he enters the room – intent on saying one thing and one thing only.

"He loves you." Jax says with weighty conviction. Mac looks up at him with red rimmed eyes that make her emeralds appear exponentially more vivid.

"I love him to." She confesses.

Jax's brow furrows in tandem with a frown, "Then what the hell was that?" He tries not to be angry, but he can't help it, not after seeing his brother so sorrowfully turned down.

Mac looks away for just a moment, her eyes fluttering out the window before they're back upon Jax with force.

"I can't be what he wants."

Jax snorts, scoffing and laughing at the obsurdity of her statement in unision, "All he wants is _you_."

With that, Jax takes his leave.

Mac doesn't see him, Chibs, Happy or any other son that day. Or any other day.

* * *

><p>All her calls go to voicemail. He doesn't once stop by. She dreams of him every night without fail. She dreams of his embrace, of memories from long ago, and most importantly, hopeful dreams of what they could be.<p>

What little was left of her heart rots and disintegrates in the days leading up to her release.

"Get Chibs here and we're even." Mac tells Clay. He doesn't reply. He just hangs up.

Mac doesn't take one last longing look around the hospital room she was confined in for a month. She just grabs the hospital-supplied bag with her few belongings and leaves.

It is in the parking lot that her weak heart stops when she sees a familiar shaggy-haired man leaning against a beautiful black Dyna with his arms over his chest.

She walks to him slowly, trepedasiously.

"Chibs." She breathes with glee.

"You wanted to see me." He responds, gruff – his emotive brown eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Her heart falls again.

She stands before him, unsure and unaware.

"I'm a stubborn cunt. I don't express emotions like I should. I'm fucked up in more ways than I can even begin to count-"

Chibs interrupts, "I know."

Mac sighs, a sigh that hurts her chest. She takes a step closer and he takes a step back. That hurts more than any of her injuries combined.

"What I'm trying to say is, if you'll have me as I am…" Her words trail off as she searches his stoic face for any sign of affirmation.

He takes a step closer.

"I love _you_, Mac. Every fucked up ounce of you."

"Then fucking kiss me."

And he does.

* * *

><p>OMG! OMG! OMG!<p>

For the love of god, please tell me what you think!

Saint Alphonsus: The Patron Saint of Confession.


	16. Saint Valentine

Chapter 16: Saint Valentine

Now, this is the chapter that had been the previous chapter 15, the previous end. So, it's truly chapter 15 St Alphonus that is the new one.

* * *

><p><em>Two Years Later…<em>

Left arm braced against the shower wall, her head bows low so that the scalding hot water runs over her sore back. Water streams over the slowly fading image of Rodin's great work, _The Gates of Hell_ tattooed on her back. The grey scale piece of art that stretches from the base of her neck to her tailbone was once upon a time a great vision to behold but in recent months has made a gradual descent into decrepitude by aid of a laser that removes the dark pigments buried under her skin – little by little, and painfully so. The back piece she was once so proud of is slowly being erased, only to be replaced by different extensive ink when the process has been completed.

Mac carefully rolls her stiff right shoulder. The moderately healed bone inside her shoulder cracks and pops, protesting the gentle action with heavy fervor. There is no audible noise over the sound of hot water that gushes from the shower head and batters against her tired and aching body but she can hear the bones grind all the same. The old injury does not go one day or one even one minute without hurting.

Her emerald green eyes open slowly, greeted by the sight of pinkish water swirling around the shower drain directly below her. The pale pink colour of the usually clear water comes from the blood that once stuck to her face and her arms – not her blood, though she wore it as if it were. The blood that rinses from her body is from… Well, she doesn't know his name. Names are irrelevant, though; he shall forever be immortalized as crow number thirty-seven in the tattooed murder that gathers in the branches of a winter dormant oak over the left side of her ribs. The dendrite reminiscent branches of the tattoo are almost nearly filled with small black birds; pretty soon more than three will have to fly away from the tree. Crow number thirty-seven will forever be nothing more than a reminder of the violent bombing in Southie that Mac rectified with another violent deed. Violence for violence. It's a vicious cycle.

Through the hot water that dribbles over her half-closed eyes, she can see her wet, bare chest glisten under the bright bathroom light overhead. Just below the cursive script scrawled across her collarbones, a white scar runs the length of her ribcage, perfectly placed in the direct middle of her chest; nothing more a thin chalk line drawn between her breasts.

It is in moments like this that Mac always finds herself overly pensive upon the past; rare moments of solitude and silence when her memory takes absolute hold of the reigns and transports her to a time not of the current. It is in moments such as this that Mac wonders where time has disappeared to, for surely there is no way so much distance is now placed between her and the vivid memories of waking up and finding that her chest had been sawed into in a life-saving surgery that she had no likelihood of surviving.

Pushing her memories down, Mac reaches for a bottle of shampoo with her right arm. As her once destroyed shoulder moves, a numb tingling creeps over her nerve endings, extending all the way to her fingertips. She grabs the wet bottle with fingers that refuse to feel and it slips from her weak grasp. Glaring at the bottle of lavender scented shampoo on the shower floor with nothing but pure detest for the innocent object, she clenches and unclenches a fist to quell the numbness in her right arm.

Simple things such as washing her hair are difficult these recent years. While she retains full movement of her right arm, the nerve endings are irreparably damaged and her entire arm goes dead numerous times throughout the day. It never fails to irritate her.

But there's nothing Mac can do except grab the bottle with her left hand and carry on. Such is life. Such is her life.

* * *

><p>Mac's wavy blonde hair no longer reaches her elbows and has not been that incredible length for quite some time. Now it falls just three inches below her shoulders, a much preferable length in her opinion. It's so much easier to take care of. She quickly brushes through her wet hair without much regard for technique then hastily gathers the pale blonde locks behind her head and ties off a pony-tail with a black elastic she finds on the beige tiled floor in the small bathroom with warm red walls.<p>

Going through the motions of getting dressed for the second time today, Mac quietly gets into the night attire she brought with her into the bathroom: a pair of black pajama bottoms and a grassy green hoodie sure to keep her warm despite the cold that permeates through the poorly insulated walls of the downtown apartment she calls home. Even though her modest abode has adequate heating it is simply not enough to completely overwhelm the distinct coldness of New England winters. Especially on days such as this where the snow falls at a fast rate of over an inch an hour and the wind howls with gale force, her house remains enveloped by an awakening chill.

Careful not to wake her sleeping partner, Mac exits the bathroom and walks down the short hallway with muted yellow walls towards her kitchen – in search of something sure to battle the insomnia she's been dealing with for the past week. Gin, as always, is her favourite sleeping aid.

Draped over the back of one of four chairs surrounding a painted black round kitchen table is her leather cut, the back bearing only the simple image of The Saints patch and rockers displaying locale and affiliation. The front of her cut has changed drastically in the past few years. More patches have been added atop of the ones displaying city of registry and rank; a diamond-shaped 1% patch, a skull with red wings, a fat pink pig with a knife stuck vertical through its head and a square patch simply reading 'RFFN'. While a _Boston _patch still remains over the left breast of her black leather cut, her rank of _Hellhound _is no longer there. It has been replaced by her new rank – a rank that Mac holds with more pride and love than a mother would have in a newborn child.

Indeed, the white patch with green lettering stitched into the thick leather barely above the right breast pocket fills her with a sense of fulfillment she thought she would never experience, if only because she does not have something dangling between her legs, but more so because it took a while for her club to realize that she did not kill Ace with malicious intent; Indeed, the title of _President_ always felt like a pipedream.

Yet it has become her reality.

Taking a gentle sip of gin, Mac fondly smiles as she gazes upon her cut. It seems her life has finally overcome the despair that for too long kept her soul shackled to misery. Happiness is finally not only on the approaching horizon, but it is firmly in her grasp.

The door to the bedroom creaks open, her slumbering mate having been awoken. Mac says a hushed cuss under her breath that she woke him – something she tried rather hard not to do when she came home at the ungodly early morning hour she did. The older man she has made a home with has not had much rest in the past few days, partly a product of her own sexual appetites (Mac is sure he's not complaining, though) but mostly his lethargy is because he's still jet-lagged from his most recent trip across the Atlantic to visit his family. A family that Mac supposes she will soon consider her own.

Her emerald eyes unconsciously take a quick glance at the simple engagement ring on her left hand as he staggers into the kitchen. His scarred face shows the obvious signs of sleep deprivation and Mac tries not to be too concerned about how dark the bags are under his brown eyes.

Chibs sighs tiredly, "Come to bed, Mac." He sounds almost like a crying child, demanding that the teddy bear he needs the comfort of for slumber to come be returned to him.

"Aye, I will in a minute." Mac takes another sip from the glass cuddled in her left hand, the modest princess-cut diamond on her ring finger sparkling under the bright kitchen light. Continuing with the lengthy battle against numbness that has yet to leave her right arm, she again shakes the tingling limb while clenching and unclenching a tight fist.

Chibs walks over, almost bumping into the stainless-steel refrigerator because he has yet to fully wake up. He takes the small glass full of gin from her then places it on the counter behind her, an act that forces an eye roll from Mac. Chibs instantly noticed the way she tries to rid her arm of the uncomfortable pins-and-needles feeling she too often feels when he spotted her leaning against the kitchen counters, drinking her signature straight-up drink. So, being the man he is, Chibs takes Mac's right hand in his then places a tender kiss which she can barely feel in the center of her palm. Even though she can barely feel the dry kiss, she feels it in her heart that swells with love inside her chest.

"Come _now_." He demands, firmly taking Mac's hand in his own. He leads her down the hall and to their mutual bedroom.

Mac smiles the whole way, letting Chibs lead her, loving the way his hand feels wrapped around hers. It feels so right. As if this is what was always meant to be – which is the reality of their relationship. It was never a question of if. It was always merely a question of when.

Their love is so simple but stronger than anything found in the greatest romance novels. Chibs and Mac may not be grand together. They may not be so entangled with each other that they are a singular entity. They may not be perfect. But they _are _and that's all that really counts.

Mac passes by a framed photograph of herself and Sarah on the hallway wall as Chibs takes her towards the bedroom and her eyes follow it as she goes, saying a silent thank you to her sister for posthumously making her order that piece of pie she craved for too many years.

**Happily ever after and all that bullshit...**


End file.
